Crossing the Mighty Sierra

by John Bullaro, Lead Evaluator
San Luis Obispo County Sheriff's Search & Rescue Unit

My introduction to long distance backpacking began early one August morning. I and nine other people set out to cross the Sierra Nevada Range from the Pine Flats Reservoir, northeast of Fresno, to Olancha, along highway 395. The trip was 95 miles long and we had ten days allocated for completion. A "dead head" driving a twelve passenger van was scheduled to pick us up in Olancha at the conclusion of the trip.

There were three professors from California State University, Northridge,  three cops, an accountant and a lawyer, and three students from the university. The leader, (I'll call him Billy) a former Green Beret back from two tours overseas, scouted the trail and set the daily walking budget.

The weather was perfect for late August—cool breezes, not a lot of bugs, and clear blue skies. My pack weighed fifty pounds, a load not well thought out, given the distance and high elevation gains. I carried a whisper lite camp stove, a gallon of fuel (nine pounds), six packages of freeze dried food, canned meats (not a good idea), a three person tent for me (six pounds), a canvas covered sleeping bag (four pounds),  and enough cloths to run a used clothing store. Add rope, matches, a knife, and a survival "Snake Charmer," single shot, short shot gun, and you see how unprepared I was for this undertaking. But, I thought, what the hell, you never know what you'll need, right? My first aid kit was scant, thinking I'd never need a splint, knee braces, antibacterial stuff, or aspirin. Lots of band-aids, though.

I labored up steep grades and pounded my knees on steep descents. Our intrepid leader set a pace based on his recent military service: 10 miles per day. Day one almost finished the lot of us.  After a long arduous days hike, we would stumble into the night's camp. Billy would greet us doing push-ups. This greeting left the rest of us feeling a need to immediately join a gym as soon as this death march ended.

Never one to drink lots of water, on day six I awoke feeling like my head was pounding on deaths door. We had just crossed the Toowa Range at an 11,000 foot elevation, when my muscles began to ache and a malaise "infected" my body. Imagine the worst case of flu you ever had and times that by ten.  I considered asking Billy to shoot me to end my misery, but thought better of that idea—he might just have done it. Mountain sickness is not potentially fatal, like high altitude pulmonary edema, but the idea of death was appealing at that moment.

That night I slept a good ten hours (haven't done that since I was an infant). In the morning I felt fully recovered.  Billy carried some of my canned goods, a colleague from the university carried part of my elaborate wardrobe, and others carried my gun, rope, and tent. With a lighter pack and the terrain headed mostly down hill, I managed rather nicely.

There are at least eight "don't do's" in this story and five "do's."  Can you pick them out? 

John is an Emeritus Professor in Parks, Recreation, and Tourism Studies from California State University, Northridge, and a retired Lecturer from Cal Poly. For thirty-four years he has taught classes in Commercial Recreation, Tourism Planning, Management and Leadership, and Wilderness Survival. He earned his Ph.D. from Claremont Graduate University in Organizational Development and Curriculum Design in Higher Education. John is a current member of the Atascadero Writer's Club and can be contacted by calling 805-440-9529 or at JohnBullaro@slocoastjournal.com.

Wolf Image on Banner by Don Joseph