Off Trail With Map and Compass
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prep and planning
With five USGS Quad maps rolled out on the floor and pieced together like a giant puzzle, I sketched an approximate route over passes I’d never seen, and where, as far as I knew, there was no trail. I used a shoelace with a knot marking a 5-mile distance to check daily mileage, trying not to bite off more than I could chew, understanding that off-trail travel might take more time and be more strenuous.
From Owens Valley, traditional lands of the Newe, Eastern Mono and Manache, and Northern Paiute, I’d take Sawmill Pass into Kings Canyon National Park. After a day and half on trail, I’d venture off, relying only on my maps and compass (the GAIA app and my Garmin InReach would come along as backups). After winding over several passes, I’d find the trail again on the other side of the park and loop back to where I’d started. Or at least that was the plan.
day 1
On the day I drove into Owens Valley, historic wildfires filled it with dense smoke. As I gazed up at the Sierras I questioned how I’d be able to navigate. My lungs burned as I ascended from the hot valley floor, and encountered two hikers coming the opposite direction. One of them admonished me for starting so late in the day, questioned if I had enough water, and warned that the next water was a long ways off. Slightly alarmed, I assessed whether I could make it to Sawmill Lake - 7 miles and 6000 ft of climbing away.
Once I crested the ridge and dropped into the Sawmill Creek drainage, the sound of rushing water welcomed me. Although water was no longer a concern, having started the day at sea-level and now exerting myself through heat and smoke in the unforgiving climb up the Sierra’s Eastern slope, exhaustion was beginning to set in. At a tiny campsite just before Sawmill meadow, I stepped hopefully toward the creek, whose sound had long since disappeared. I heard nothing. Finally I peered over the edge and was rewarded by the sight of enough of a dribble to justify setting up camp.
day 2
Getting over Sawmill Pass the next morning was challenging, but that’s what mornings are for. The trail descending to Woods Creek was a bit spotty, but easy enough to follow. Being back on the PCT was nostalgic, if significantly easier and more crowded since it wasn’t buried in snow. The last time I had been over Pinchot Pass (12,120 ft) it had been a post-holing nightmare and an adrenaline-pumping last few steps over the Southeast-facing headwall.
I passed a campsite where I’d slept next to a frozen-over Lake Marjorie in 2018, and eventually my first off-trail objective came into view: Mt. Rushkin. It was immediately apparent that there was absolutely no way I’d be able to climb up and over the pass on Rushkin’s South face without a trail. No way whatsoever and still keep the planned schedule. It might not be possible at all without climbing gear. Fortunately, while planning with the topo maps this pass looked like it might be a problem, so I had a backup plan.
The PCT took me down to the King’s River where I officially departed the trail, pivoting to the alternate plan rather than risking life and limb on Mt. Rushkin. The map showed a use-trail following the river West, but I could only spot it sporadically, mostly finding my own way toward Cartridge Pass. I set up camp by the river, just below the canyon wall I’d be climbing in the morning. Being off-trail and isolated, away from any other hikers and completely on my own was exhilarating.
day 3
Despite the ascent up Cartridge Pass looking intimidating in the waning twilight, the morning offered a new perspective: it looked not only possible, but maybe even easy. Again, I was unsuccessful finding the trail that was shown on the map, but made my way switchbacking up toward Cartridge Lake regardless. On the ascent the trail did peek out here and there, but it was so unreliable that I didn’t bother trying to follow it.
The steep canyon wall leveled out, bringing Cartridge Lake into view, reflecting a backdrop of jagged peaks. I set my pack down, unfolded my map, and zoned out watching some very fleshy trout mill about in the shallows. On the final push to the top of the pass, I’d misjudged where to start climbing and ended up high on the far side of the moraine, forcing me to descend a few hundred feet before climbing up again to reach the pass. Again, trail poked out here and there, but it was easy to lose and didn’t warrant the effort to follow. To my surprise, as I approached the top of Cartridge Pass two other hikers popped over from the other side.
Two older guys who were smiling ear to ear and laughing like they’d been out in the wilderness for too long. They told me as much and asked about the route I was planning. “Marion Lake is like going to church,” the more loquacious of the two guys said with a dreamy glint in his eye. “You heading that way? Of course you are, you should stay there tonight! Seriously. It’s amazing.”
I nodded graciously, thinking that my plan was to hike far past Marion Lake that day.
“You going over Red Pass after that? There’s kind of a game trail that goes around the… left? or is the right? It’s the right side of the lake, just past the memorial plaque.”
“Oh, I haven’t been there before,” I stuttered. “I don’t know about the plaque.”
“Well, you know, it’s a plaque for Helen Marion LeConte,” he said.
With a proverbial slap on the back the two guys headed off in one direction and I continued in the other. The trail was easily discernible from the top of the pass, and it dropped precipitously down through some large talus and boulders until it let out onto an expansive, flat marsh. A number of shallow, alpine lakes are interconnected by little canals, and the whole area is covered with a thick blanket of spongy grass and moss. The silence was both beautiful and eerie.
In The Sixth Extinction by Elizabeth Kolbert, she relates a story of David Wake, a professor who had spent decades studying wildlife in the Sierras. He sent some students to collect frog samples, but they came back empty handed. The professor, having collected a plethora of frogs from the Sierra's over the years assumed they just hadn’t gone to the right places. Wake recalled earlier times when “You’d be walking through meadows, and you’d inadvertently step on them. They were just everywhere.” They returned and to his dismay, no frogs could be found. Along with frogs all throughout the Americas, they had likely fallen victim to a skin fungus that has wiped out frog populations from the Andes to the Rockies and beyond.
The marshy meadow I traversed seemed like an ideal place for thousands of frogs to be lavishing in the warm summer sun, plopping in and out of the water at their leisure. But there was nothing.
Eventually, after fighting my way through some thick brush growing over a creek, I made my way to Marion Lake. It was exactly as much of a spiritual experience as the old-timer had said. The water was deep blue, and craggy peaks reached into the sky all around. I made my way to the water’s edge and noticed a film of ash covering the water’s surface, having fallen from they sky due to the raging wildfires not far away.
At this point I was getting a little cocky in my map-reading and navigation ability, and the guys from the pass couldn’t quite remember if the game trail was on the right or left side of the lake. I assumed I knew which pass I was heading for, and struck out around the left (East) side of the lake and started climbing up toward the pass, without so much as pulling out my map. An hour or so later, things were starting to look not quite right. Most damning was a huge peak directly on the opposite side of the lake that was conspicuously red - as in Red Pass. Damnit. I pulled out my phone for the first time this trip and used GAIA to check my location compared to the planned route.
Well, the route went around the East side of the lake alright, but it kept going all the way around and the pass I’d been approaching was completely in the wrong direction. Worse, there was no way to get around the lake from where I was, it was completely cliffed out. My only option was to backtrack and fully circumvent the lake again. Over two hours and plenty of energy wasted, I was finally back at the North side of the lake. Frustrated, embarrassed, demoralized, and now feeling unsure of my map and compass skills, I hesitated to go any deeper into the wilderness. I decided camping at Marion Lake would be a good option after all. I’d sleep on it. In the morning I’d decide if venturing further was a better idea than going back the way I’d come.
After setting up camp, I ventured around the right (West) side of the lake and easily found both the trail and the plaque mentioned by the old-timer. There were three chutes around the West side of the lake, any one of which seemed like a possible ascent. But the trail led to the middle chute, which, from a distance, definitely looked like the worst route to take. Regardless, trails are easier than bushwhacking, so I started up.
To my surprised disbelief, as I neared the top of the chute I heard voices from above. An older man and woman were just entering the top of the chute and making their way down. Both had large packs and they were proceeding with plenty of trepidation. Delighted to see people out and away from the beaten path, I perked up.
“Hey there! How’s it going?” I offered.
The woman didn’t break concentration. The man looked down at me, perhaps somewhat annoyed and offered some gruff response.
“Did you guys come over Red Pass?” I asked, undeterred.
After descending a few steps closer, they both stopped and said hello. The man told me these old use-trails were established by survey teams with at least 100 mules, who had come through generations ago to map out the Sierras. The vision of a team of mules with men scrambling to keep gear, animals, and men from slipping and falling, or rocks giving way, all while ascending up this steep, narrow, rocky chute was truly incredible. The provisions they must have had, their heavy gear, leather booths, cotton and wool clothing, no existing maps, no GPS - all of it must have been an impressive sight, and their accomplishment was certainly an impressive feat. The couple planned to camp down at the lake, so I mentioned they might see my tent by the drainage.
Day 4
Reconnaissance from the night before greatly improved my confidence, so I woke up early, packed up camp, and optimistically jumped on the trail heading back to the middle chute. In just over an hour I found myself at the top of the pass, the trail having disappeared about half way from the lake. The lesson from yesterday was not lost on me and this time I set my pack down, took out my map, compass, and pen. I triangulated from two distant peaks to confirm I was indeed at the top of the Red Pass, then took a bearing on the next pass - White Pass.
White Pass was almost the exact elevation of Red Pass. My Plan was to attempt a traverse directly there, avoiding a strenuous down and up. All was well until I came within view of White Pass. The easy traverse over solid granite gave way to cliffs. I looked directly downhill, and even that route was cut off by cliffs. In a moment of frustrated panic, I thought I might have to backtrack most of the way back to Red Pass, drop down into the valley, then ascend back up the chute directly below White Pass.
Ok, relax, take a breath… One step at a time. It looked like I could make it down to a certain ledge. I made it down. From there, I could shimmy across to another ledge. From there, a large step here, a small drop there. Before I knew it I was in the main chute and only had a fairly easy ascent to the top of White Pass. Mission accomplished.
Again, I took out my map and compass, and tried to get a bearing on my next move. Gray Pass was not visible, but the lush meadow in the valley where I planned to hike seemed easy enough to traverse. I made mental notes of the prominent peaks in relation to my planned route and set off down into the valley. There was no trail whatsoever, but the hiking was fairly easy. The series of tiny lakes and streams, surrounded by more lush grass, moss, and trees seemed like yet another ideal place for life to be teeming, for frogs to be jumping, birds chirping, deer frolicking. But there was not much besides the gentle sound of water.
Without a trail, I was able to bee-line to Gray Pass, once it came into view. There were a few tiny creeks to cross, and some tiny alpine lakes to circumvent, but nothing too difficult. Still, being completely off any trail, out away from any crowds, I felt like the entire Sierra was mine to explore. I was utterly exhilarated and alive in a way a that few other experiences can offer. Again, voices gave away the presence of other people before I actually saw them. Two hikers were coming down from Gray Pass. I stopped and spoke with them briefly. They asked where I’d come from and I tried to explain the route I’d taken. They seemed to be contemplating going in that direction without any appearance of having planned for it at all. Not a good idea, I thought to myself.
Now feeling at the top of my game, I got to the top of Gray Pass and all too soon forgot how easy it was to get off track. I dashed off in the direction I thought was my route. The terrain kept getting steeper and steeper, which did not comport with what I had planned. This was supposed to be a relatively flat, easy section. Maybe I was too high on the mountain, I thought. But going down was not an option - way too steep. I was near the top of the ridge so going up wasn’t an option either.
Damnit, I thought. I’m completely off track. I pulled out the phone and brought up GAIA again. At Gray Pass I had cut right when I should have cut left. It was easy enough to get back on route, but I was frustrated with myself for not being more cognizant of where I was and where I needed to go, for not checking the map, and for getting lost - again.
“Now I know where I’m going,” I thought. There had been hints of a trail here and there, which also gave me some confidence. But before long I was in the middle of a relatively flat forest, trees obscuring any landmarks by which I might have triangulated my position. My opportunity to take a bearing at the pass, when I could see the terrain, had been wasted by hubris and hurry. There was no way I could have navigated my way out of that forest. GAIA was my crutch, again. With my phone in hand, I gradually made my way toward Horseshoe Lake where I dropped my pack and had a snack while I gazed across the water.
From there, the trail was easy to follow. It disappeared occasionally, but reappeared after following essentially the same bearing. I made it to State Lakes, and soon to my next off-trail objective: Glacier Valley. I had lost a fair amount of time by getting off trail over the past two days, and the option to stay on trail for the rest of the trip was looking appealing. When I got to the creek that was my landmark to turn South and follow it up to the next alpine lake, a woman was there filling up on water. She had fishing gear and asked about the route I’d taken. I told her about the huge trout in Cartridge Lake, but warned that it might be tough to get there off-trail without having planned out the route.
Distracted by the conversation, exhausted from an already long day, and perhaps subconsciously leaning toward staying on the trail, I forgot that my original plan had been to ascend Glacier Valley. Instead I kept hiking West toward the Copper Creek Trail. It wasn’t until I actually hit the Copper Creek Trail junction that I realized I had completely missed the turn-off to Glacier Valley. “Whelp, we’re on trail from here,” I thought.
Granite Pass was a few miles further, and around 5 pm I was trekking across the its gravelly summit. At about that time a message beeped into my InReach. It was Molly. She’d been following my progress on MapShare and was just giving me the encouragement I needed to stagger the rest of the way down the pass and to Granite Lake. A few deer, a doe with two fawns, were grazing in the fields on the approach to the lake. The sun was sinking behind the peaks as I set up my tent and watched the granite cone island in the lake turn from orange to red to gray.
day 5
The 11-mile on-trail descent to Road’s End was done before 11am. It was noticeably hotter down in the smoke-filled valley. Back on trail, there were hikers every mile or two. Everyone complained about the smoke and the unrelenting ascent. I took a quick break at the ranger’s station which was closed because of Covid-19. My attempt to use the public restroom was foiled by a large group of hikers who apparently all had to use it and were lined up. “I’ll just go in the woods,” I thought.
Paradise Valley was a dramatic change in scenery. It almost reminded me of the temperate rain forests in Washington, where I hiked as a kid. Berry-riddled bear scat was abundant on the trail, which was lined by the berry-culprits themselves. I plucked one off and popped it in my mouth. “Hmm. Doesn’t really taste like anything,” I thought, and spit it out.
Climbing up Paradise Valley was strenuous, but the crystal clear creek was running high and gorgeous waterfalls punctuated every steep section. Eventually I arrived at my planned campsite, an established trail camp where there were at least ten other groups. So much for solitude. Regardless, I was still in high spirits from the trip.
Two guys were cooking by the river near where I had set up my tent. Suddenly I heard one of them shouting. My head jerked up and I saw a black bear meandering directly toward me. I fumbled with my pack to get my phone out and started shooting video. The bear, having been scolded by the other guys, then seeing me standing fully upright and staring right at him, decided to turn away and saunter off into the woods.
Day 6
I woke up early and started hiking before most of the other hikers had gotten out of their tents. As I approached the PCT again, closing the full loop I’d hiked, a woman going the opposite direction asked if I’d seen any rangers. “No?” I answered, wondering why she needed a ranger. Then I realized I did have my InReach and could call for help if there was an emergency.
“Is everything ok?” I asked. “I have an InReach and can call for help…”
“A guy hurt his knee back up the trail and may need help,” she responded and then kept hiking.
I thought to myself, “Well, I guess I’ll see him and if they need help I can call.”
A few older guys had staked a claim at an awkward part of the trail and set up a tent right there. None of the three or four guys seemed in a panic or asked for help. I said hello and asked how they were doing and they were just friendly, so I assumed no help was needed. About a half hour later I heard a helicopter thudding down the valley toward the very spot where those guys had been.
A waterfall looked familiar from the PCT, but again, it was so different to be there in a different season when hikers were everywhere. Soon I found the split off to Woods Lake and I began the ascent to Sawmill Pass. A wife and daughter were meeting their JMT-hiking husband and father at the top of the pass and we had a brief, friendly conversation. Down at Sawmill Lake I didn’t miss the opportunity for an alpine lake swim. My Mountain Hardwear Crater Lake long-sleeved hoodie had completely obviated the need for sunscreen, and I had been able to avoid using any insect repellent, so I had no qualms about jumping into the pristine water.
A pleasant campsite at the meadow was enticing, but I wanted to get as far as I could that day and thought I could just camp at the same site as my first night. When I made it down there, the little dribble that had convinced me to stop the first night was now completely dried up. Unsure where I’d be able to find both camping and water going forward, I decided to backtrack to the meadow and camp there.
day 7
The final descent to my car was easy. I followed a set of bear prints almost all the way down. Filled with light and life, I jubilantly addressed a group of men and boys laboring under towering packs who were on their way in. I mentioned the bear prints with a smile and wished them well.
