A campsite at the edge of the world, near mile 10.4.
Looking down over land recently traversed, from the side trail at mile 12.3.
The trail heads up one of many talus piles.
Indian Knife Ridge is that small crest between hills. The visible hill is the last one before Taylor Lake.
Taylor Lake, from about mile 19.
The slippery, steep trail down to Taylor Lake, covered in hailstones for extra fun.
Pea-sized hail collects around my squishy-wet shoes.
The view from my tent at 10:00 AM, at Taylor Lake.
Now, you probably know that you can judge how distant a storm is by counting the seconds between a lightning strike and its thunder clap. Five seconds is a mile. So if you should ever find yourself counting thusly: *flash* one-one thou- *BOOM!*, you're probably in big, big trouble.
Imagine the following scene, if you will: frequent bursts of howling wind fling sleet and hail horizontally, bend flat every blade of tough alpine grass. There is nothing, for a half-mile in every direction, to break the gale's fury, just hillside after hillside of weathered granite debris and knee-high shrubs. The clouds above are layered so thick, the afternoon seems no brighter than the minutes after sunset. Lightning strikes leave afterimages on the insides of your eyelids; the air smells like chlorine and rust, when the wind will let you take a breath. A rubanesque girl, weighted down with a 60's-era orange canvass pack roughly the size of a Buick, passes you in a whoosh of speed, going about mach two, legs a blur, hiking poles flailing madly. If you have ever seen 'Kung Fu Hustle,' you have an idea what this looks like. Her every hair is standing straight on end. Finally, add the soundtrack, hard to hear over the roaring wind -- "oh poop oh poop oh **CRA-CRA-BOOM!** poop!"
And the segment had started out so well, too.
Well, for the first quarter-mile, anyway. Then it turns into miles of cow-pie-and-dirt roads, which continue until you come to the ATV-zone. Hn. Ok, so the beginning and the end of this segment weren't so hot, frankly -- but the middle was nice.
Starting around mile seven, the trail rapidly leaves civilization behind. While collapsed resting on a log, I was startled by a rustling noise, and looked over just in time to see a pine martin (large, red-brown weasel the length of a fox, but lighter-built and not as tall) dart by, vaulting logs and small boulders with exquisite grace. It was followed in a few moments by a half-grown cub. There's something to be said for keeping your eyes open!
There was another pleasant surprise waiting down the trail -- water, and plenty of it. I was worried about not being able to find the promised spring at 11.7, but in fact the water source was pretty obvious, and probably more reliable than indicated. Provided you've had afternoon rain, the springs should be running. The series of pictures below will direct you to it.
Though steep, the climb past the springs is also lovely. Several small trickles of water crossed the trail along the way at first, and then the trail breaks into high sub-alpine forest, interspersed with pretty little meadows. When I passed, in very early September, the bolitas (delicious edible mushrooms) were in riotous fruit here. You could have piled a 4x4 truck bed high with their bounty, and still left whole fields of them untouched. Bears or deer seemed to enjoy them, too -- many mushrooms had big bites taken out -- and still there was no end to perfect 'shrooms.
If I'd only known what was coming, I'd have camped here, and waited out the coming storm. The guidebook says you don't want to be caught by a storm over Indian Knife Ridge, and guess what? It's right!
You probably don't want to camp at Taylor Lake, anyway. It seems quite inviting from up above -- even moreso when your every hair is standing on end, when your skin is crawling and chest aching with static electricity, or when hailstones sting even through your jacket. But in poor weather, Taylor Lake suffers from several drawbacks as a campsite. First, most of the lake basin floods in heavy rain. Second, though growing at a mere 11,000 feet, the trees are all quite stunted, due to the very frequent and very wretched high winds. Third, there is no firewood; every shrub has long ago been picked clean. Forth, Taylor Lake is a heavily-used camping area.
Lucky me, I met with all four disadvantages. After stumbling down off the ridge, I fought my way down sodden trails and through dripping willow bushes to find a campsite near the water. Thoroughly soaked -- largely due to those willows -- I finally set up camp, and then spent a good hour wandering the lake in search of fuel. Coyotes and owls called from the surrounding hills, as if reminding one another of far more pleasant places to be. Though there was discarded toilet paper aplenty caught in the willows, there was no wood. Disheartened, I crawled shivering into the tent and gnawed on a block of crunchy Ramen, and listened to a nearby pair of camped mountain bikers argue, ad nauseum (oh, how boys can *talk!*).
As night fell -- bringing with it a darkness nearly indistinguishable from the day -- the real brunt of the storm hit. Rain was a constant drumming on the tent, which despite being tucked into the willows, flexed mightily under bursts of wind strong enough to knock a person down. Sleep was fragmented and uneasy -- and cold, as the ground grew sodden and moisture began to seep into the tent. During the night, I tried to sit up, only to discover that the roof was weighted and drooping with three inches of sodden snow and hail. Thunder made the tentpoles tremble tangibly. Sometime before dawn, I peeked outside and found I couldn't see the willows ten feet in front of me, so thick were the clouds racing each other past my tent.
As I fought my way out of the massed underbrush later that morning, the terrible wind ripped my pack cover off my pack, and wrapped it instead around my face. Off-balance and blinded, I slid butt-first down a mudbank and practically into the tarp-shelter of a north-bound ultralighter, who'd made it to the lake sometime during the night's terrible storm. He was camped in a spot which had promptly flooded and become a single giant sucking mudpuddle. His leg, mud-coated to the calf, poked forlornly out from under the shelter's edge.
He was fine, by the way. But he had learned, as had I, that there's really only one thing you can say in the face of weather like that: "Oh poop."
Following are images of the spring at mile 11.7, and how to find it. If you're lucky, someone will have left a note on the trail, such as this one.
The note will probably tell you to check for the spring between the two barely-visible campsites, one of which you can see here, in the center. (Click to enlarge.)
There is a side trail heading left, towards the campsites and the spring between them, but the side trail is a little hard to find, as a log has fallen across it.
The most obvious sign of the nearby spring, if there is no note, is that the trail becomes very muddy. Unlike other puddles, these ones may be clear (indicating that water is flowing, however slowly) rather than cloudy.
Near the muddy part of the trail, you may be able to spot a standing sinkhole/water-pocket about 20 feet to your left, near the upturned roots of a fallen tree. Water is dead-center in this photograph.
If all else fails, watch for this stone channel/basin, just to the *right* of the trail. Even if it is not flowing, the spring may be. Backtrack about 50 feet, and search downhill for the spring or associated pockets of water.
Suggested updates to databook:
0.0
Take a right along the edge of the parking area to follow a trail paralleling the main road.
1.4
I didn't notice the spring at 1.4, but there were two or three other (thoroughly cow-trampled and muddy) seeps along this area, so I expect it was flowing.
1.4-5.7
This section crosses an ATV road, ascends over a lovely ridge, then crosses that road a couple more times. Some parts of the trail have been obliterated by ATVs. Watch carefully for trail markers, and if you really can't decide where to go, examine the ground for bootprints and trekking-pole stab marks. The way is usually obvious, if you pause and look around. Though there are 'no motorized vehicle' signs on the trail, be prepared for dirtbikers there anyway. Careful when you're walking on the main road, as well -- ATVers go fast! On the plus side, there are plenty of helpful people around if you are hurt or out of water.
4.7
The databook suggests that you must travel 0.3 miles on FS564 here. This is NOT THE CASE. The actual road travel is less than 150 feet before the trail exits to the left.
6.0
I started meeting bowhunters around this area, in late August. They blend into the woods, walk really, really quietly and may therefore scare the bejesus out of you. But those I met were pleasant fellows, albeit very soft-spoken. Deer bowhunting starts as early as Aug 28 in some parts of the state. You could start seeing muzzleloading rifles as early as September 11th -- a good reason to be finished with the trail by then.
7.3, 7.9
There are now *two* salt creek trails that branch off from the CT.
8.5
There were some small ponds off to the right, at the bast of a talus slope, in this area. If the trail is muddy/puddled, your chances of finding water in the vicinity are pretty good, if you want to take the time.
10.4
Ascend, walk along a ridge with great views to your left. Camping on the ridge-edge here is good.
11.1
There's a dry camp near the trail to your left, near where a small strange side trail heads up and to the right.
11.7
Seasonal seeps in trees to left. See photo series above for info on how to locate this water.
12.3
In a good water year, there several more small springs crossing the main trail. In the guidebook, 'bench' doesn't mean physical bench, just a grassy flat area, sorry! The sidetrail to views is about 1/3 mile long, but it leads out onto an impressive stony spit, from where you can look down onto the CT at around mile 8.5.
14.1
Did not locate this 'faint sidetrail'. However, there were masses -- truckloads -- of edible and delicious bolete mushrooms in these sub-alpine fields.
15.2
This is about the last place to stop with good treecover, if storms threaten. You don't want to be caught on the following ridge in a lightning storm. Really. The trail after this is quite straight and very easy to follow, albeit rough. You can't get lost.
18.5
The actual knife-edge ridge. Probably more enjoyable to cross if you're not trying to outrun lightning.
18.8
A very steep, rocky, muddy descent to Taylor lake. Probably easier if you're not trying to make it down in a violent hailstorm.
19.4
Plenty of campsites, but avoid low ground, which becomes a mudpit during rain. All firewood in this area has been harvested long ago, and I don't believe there are fish in the lake. High winds may sweep this area. When you return to the CT, you may find it very muddy and slick if there's been rain.
The elevation profile for this segment is roughly correct.
----> Onward, to Segment 28!
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