Preparations at the parking lot.

Kids go hiking.

Martin had been talking for quite some time that he would take Tom and Bryce fishing. I agreed with it being a rather good idea, but over time Martin admitted that actually he had in mind taking the children on a hike in the Sierra, and fishing would be just one of the many activities there. I dismissed Martin's offer to take Tom alongside Bryce and Rumiko — after all, Tom and Martin really don't know each other well, Tom had never been outdoors overnight without a parent, and there's a thing about having to carry at least some of his own stuff in a backpack (another unknown variable) — in the end I said that I would accompany Tom myself. Granny latched on, saying she'd go, too, and so we added Lisa to be complete. Only the Hippo declared categorically that he's no mule and won't go anywhere, certainly not Leavitt Meadows, from where we had just come back.

It started shaping up into a whaling expedition, especially because we normally do car camping, and don't let the volume and weight of all our stuff that we pack along, bother us. My warm sleeping back is about twenty two pounds (OK, perhaps not so much, but at least six or seven); our inflatable mats are huge, fat and comfortable — and also heavy. It was obvious I was bound to beg for and borrow some gear from more experienced and better equipped friends. Still my backpack reached forty pounds (18 kg) in the first round. With Martin's tent (one kilo less), off-loading the tent poles and a bag of rice to granny, with Hippo's sleeping bag (it's lightest), a stove from Kovars that has the smallest tank one can buy, and with their mats, I got close to thirty pounds (under fifteen kilo) and began to curse myself for the stupid idea to take Lisa along (she won't carry much and her sleeping bag and mat took much space, after all). I could not take my promise to already ecstatic Lisa back, so I made sure with Martin that we would not hike a long distance, and hoped that I'd manage somehow.

Martin over Leavitt Meadows. (photo granny)

Resting with a heavy backpack. (photo granny)

On Saturday 8 a.m. we all stood in front of our house and tried to squeeze seven expedition members an all our gear into our bus. This took us about twenty minutes, but at last we were leaving Hippo, who looked as if he was going to immediately crawl back into his bed (which I envied him, completely out of character). Kids were assigned the back bench — fitting and attaching all the children's seats in there felt like solving a puzzle, but we had worked it out.

It was a comparatively easy journey all the way to Pinecrest — that is, besides some accident on highway 580, which snarled traffic by some half hour. We stopped at Pinecrest ranger station to fill out wilderness camping permits. Martin and I also obtained fire permits (valid until the end of the year) for the whole California. I gave tylenol to Bryce who complained about horrible headaches, I distributed prepared sandwiches to my children, and we sped on.

When Rumiko started to yell, "sick, 'e's sick!" all I could think of were various expletives. I had to stop and check out, WHO was being sick — and it was Bryce. That worried me. Actually, that and the mess all over the car, seats and clothes; I did not like at all his combination of headaches and vomiting — but Martin said that it was silly to think that a boy would get altitude sickness at five thousand feet, and it would most likely be over-eating (Bryce had been raiding a box where we keep various nuts, granola bars and similar goodies) combined with watching a DVD in a moving car (he was lucky not mentioning my driving skills, although it came up for a discussion later).

Hiking off trail to Poore Lake.

This is our new home. (photo granny)

Although we were thus delayed by various disasters, sometimes after one p.m. we had eventually reached a traihead parking lot at Leavitt Meadows. Ensued: running around the lot, visiting port-a-potties, re-packing of back-packs (Martin offered me to carry the tent he'd loaned us, for which I was grateful), putting sunscreen on faces, searching for hats and admonishing children that they should stop trying to impale each other on hiking poles. We were ready to set out by two o'clock. A half minute later, we returned — Tom had taken his water bottle out of his back-pack, had a drink, and left it standing on the parking lot. All I could do was berate him what a silly idea that was (leaving for a hike without carrying water), and return for the bottle.

It is really only a short distance to Poore Lake, which was our destination — about three miles. Although I was worried about the ascent and hot weather and a heavy back-pack, I could cope with it adequately at the children's pace. Mostly after I re-packed my bag again — since Martin took the tent, the balance was lost and I had to re-arrange at least the mats to not feel like a Notre Dame Hunchback. I was expecting that the pack of kids would be the fastest, but instead of challenging each other who's fastest in walking, I had the impression they competed in collapsing. It went about this way: at least one child would randomly declare to be completely exhausted, thus giving a signal to all of them to go to the ground.

Martin attracted the children. (photo granny)

It was obviously freezing at night...

From Secret Lake, we went cross-country, following only rock cairns. This worked until Lisa began to fall behind and we lost the rest of the expedition among a maze of boulders. Not that I could not find my direction downhill to the lake that glittered ahead of us, but after all it's rather large and I would not like to run up and down, looking for others. Fortunately for me and Lisa, Tom came back for us, and we stopped being lost.

I was somewhat taken aback at the yelling and hollering that carried from the lake — apparently we were not the only party interested in finding a spot under the trees on a small peninsula. We dropped off our bags, released granny, Rumiko and kids to roam about (well, roam; kids rushed to the lake shore and began throwing pine cones in the water), while Martin and I went on looking for the nearest suitable campsite. Martin went up a hill, I took a gulch that I liked. Eventually we converged on the same nice meadow with a brook, partially protected by trees. We moved the rest of the expedition there, erected the tents — and Martin unpacked his fishing poles, thus eliminating the children for the rest of the stay. Meaning, he firmly locked them onto himself. I did not mind a single bit; as soon as the fishers departed toward the lake, I could sit down and do NOTHING, indeed I did not have to answer thousands of questions, or resolve some tiring disputes. I could take off my boots, wash in the brook, chat with Rumiko, make tea — and relax.

It was cold even one and half hour sunrise. (photo Granny)

Semi-desert heats up quickly, and soon the kids were splashing in the water. (photo Martin)

After a noticeable while, Lisa arrived saying, "I thought the dinner was ready." I explained to her that the dinner was going to be ready as soon as "somebody" cooks it, and that "somebody" definitely won't be cooking separate meals; instead, the rest of the expedition would have to join us. Fortunately this happened soon, so I put some instant rice in a kettle and we ate in five minutes. Younger members of the expedition were asking for a campfire — so they were set out to fetch wood.

Right after dark Tom announced that he needed to go sleep. I though that he was tired, poor boy — but that was not the case. It was just that Martin had explained to the unsuccessful fishers that they had caught no fish because a wind was blowing, and that they needed to get up at six in the morning and try it during the sunrise calm — and Tom had gathered that since he was to get up at six, he had to go to bed just as early. I attempted to signal to Martin what a fatal error that was, and tried to convince him to confiscate Tom's wristwatch (e.g. under the guise of safekeeping), lest he be ready by 0600 hours for fishing. Martin thought that I was trying to make fun, and dismissed the idea as not serious. So I had to tell my son that I was not going to get up at six o'clock, even if a whale had arrived to Poore Lake, and that he would have to wake up Martin and deal with him at that hour. And that I expect from (all of) them that they would also take care of their own breakfast, all that so quietly that they would not wake me up, unless they wished to encounter an angry mama.

Tom caught a pine cone.

Comparing commanding staff watches before departure. (photo Granny)

Our original arrangement was to declare one tent to be boys' (Martin, Bryce and Tom), and another one girls' (Granny, Rumiko, Lisa and I), but Lisa had insisted on sleeping with Bryce and Tom. So Martin (I don't want to say he had it coming) ended up with all the kids. I had to squeeze in with the ladies and our backpacks (all of the breakfast was still packed in them and we did not want to have them chewed to pieces by hungry chipmunks). I gave a professional lecture to Rumiko in the evening, about the best way to keep warm in a sleeping bag: wearing as little clothing as possible, to warm up the whole cavity within. Then I discovered that this did not apply to Hippo's sleeping bag. I also discovered why he has been complaining about being cold when camping. His sleeping bag (and one should note that it has seen some eleven to twelve years of service) made me feel incredibly FREEZING COLD. Not only I kept my long underpants on after zipping the bag completely (in all other bags, I have to take them off to not die of heat stroke), but I had to subsequently hunt for additional layers (a sweat-shirt, a buff for neck and head), and in the end I had to reach for a blanket. Only then I was able to reach a temperature in which I could fall asleep.

Martin's night was, apparently, a bit more busy, for the kids (Lisa and Bryce) kept venturing out to pee. He also did not heed my warning regarding Tom's watch, and beginning with six a.m. he had to keep inventing various excuses, why they were not rising to go fishing. I had to praise Tom — he was capable enough to issue himself a dry breakfast, and got himself ready to set out without mommy behind his back.

Expedition scrambling uphill. (photo Martin)

Lisa the hiker. (photo Granny)

Sometimes by seven o'clock I could not hold it anymore (thanks to Tom's occasional cough and my own, personal natural urges), and I scrambled out of the tent. A look inside our kettle with the remains of our cooking water from yesterday explained the mystery of the night's cold — the water had an icy crust. Martin pulled out his thermometer, which had descended to minus one half degree Centigrade (and it was already some one hour past sunrise, and so I think it might have been some twenty seven degrees Fahrenheit). We shivered, huddling around the fire, and tried to warm up with warm drinks. Then Martin agreed to go fishing, after all. In reality it looked like this: Tom was furiously casting the line, and Lisa and Bryce chatted, sitting on a shore boulder. They all seemed quite happy with this arrangement, and I left them to their respective fates and started packing.

Tom had to be dragged from the lake almost forcefully; he was disappointed that he had not caught anything. I did not have the courage to tell him that in this lake (easily accessible and favorite) were probably no more fishes at this time of the year, and if they were, then certainly not in the shallows where he cast. We issued an edict with Martin that the expedition is required to eat lunch before leaving the campsite. We would hike well fed, and would not have to improvise something in the middle of our route, and our bags would be lighter of the food we consumed. Mates prepared an instant miso soup, which went well with our sandwiches — and we were on our way.

Going back took us two and half hours, after all, it goes better and merrier downhill. As we were crossing the Walker River bridge, it dawned on me that I could leave the already barely crawling kids by the river, and go by myself to the parking lot — I would save the kids some effort with dragging along the highway and myself the hassle of urging them on. I left my backpack with Martin and set out; the rest of the expedition splashed in the river. Unlike the shallow, sun-warmed Poore Lake, the water in Walker River was like ice; only Martin was brave enough to submerge in the stream.

All that's left is crossing the bridge.

A very brave leader of the expedition.

We stopped at the pack station — since we had forgotten kids' water bottles in the saddle bags on the rainy weekend before — they had been found and kept; Lisa found Hank in the corral and went to entertain him with her presence, and with some apple leftovers that we had carried along. I would love to write about the rest of the way home happening without problems, but a tire pressure imbalance indicator lit up after Sonora Pass. It wasn't so hard to spot the leaky tire, but I was glad to have Martin along — I had somebody to consult what to do. In the end we kept adding air and watching it leak. This was also a reason to cancel our plans to have dinner at Strawberry Inn, and instead we ate at the first larger town — Sonora. We were worried that if the wheel would flatten brutally during dinner, we would have to seek out a repair shop, which would (I hope) be easier in a town rather than in a roadside mountain resort. Fortunately we did not have to do that, and arrived home pretty much in a good shape. When we then checked out our bus with Hippo, we concluded that it would deserve a completely new set of tires, and so we did not have it fixed at all and simply ordered all new.

Discounting the punctured tire and the vomiting Bruce, the trip was rather successful. I only have to work on Hippo for the next season to participate, and get Tom a fishing pole. Then we need to find a lake WITH fish.

There are more pictures in the gallery.