An Average Gym Member Attempts the John Muir Trail
Written by Invictus Member Jay Morrison

Where will your fitness take you?

Always inspired by challenge and endurance events, I’d wanted to tackle a longer thru-hike for a long time, having done shorter trips in Zion National Park and the Grand Canyon in recent years as time away from work allowed.

The big American trails, like the Appalachian Trail and the Pacific Crest Trail, have been in my awareness for years, but seemed just-out-of-reach, in terms of the time commitment needed to complete such an adventure. But in researching these I discovered the John Muir Trail.

The JMT lies in the High Sierra largely along the Pacific Crest Trail, stretching approximately 211 miles from the valley of Yosemite National Park to the peak of Mount Whitney, the highest point in the contiguous United States at 14,505 feet in elevation. The trail passes through three national parks in total – Sequoia and King’s Canyon as well as Yosemite – as well as portions of Inyo National Forrest, the John Muir Wilderness, and the Ansel Adams Wilderness.

The total elevation change on the trail is approximately 47,000 feet, including six mountain passes over 11,000 feet: Forester, Glen, Pinchot, Mather, Muir, Seldon, Silver, and Donohue. I honestly had little idea what that elevation profile meant in reality – I just knew it seemed like it might be a lot. But hey, the highest peak in the country? Massive elevation changes? Three National Parks? Some of the most stunning natural beauty in the country? Vintage California? With an attempt possible within a 3-week vacation window? Game on.

At this point, I should mention a few pieces of information for context. The first is that in January I injured my knee. I put off going to the doctor for what I deemed to be a reasonable amount of time (i.e., 3 months), but the eventual post-MRI assessment was that I had a “near-complete tear of the anterior cruciate ligament, vertical longitudinal tear of the medial meniscus with a small piece of irregular displaced meniscal tissue in the inferior medial gutter, and a moderate-sized popliteal cyst with partial rupture.” I guess my strategy of just rubbing some dirt on it and getting back in the game may not have been the best plan. I’m also over 40. “Adolescent invulnerability” is not an excuse for doing stupid, risky things anymore. Top Gun words to live by: “your ego is writing checks your body can’t cash!” In addition to that, 2019 was an unusually high snow year in the High Sierras. Snow along the John Muir Trail was reported to be between 150-200% of normal, with many adventurers canceling completely, postponing, or packing an ice axe and crampons to complete the trail throughout the month of June.

All reasons to potentially not do this. On the other hand, as far as my knee went, everything sounds worse than it really is when spoken in medical jargon, right? And besides, the orthopedist said hiking is fine – I don’t suppose it mattered that I just asked about hiking and not about a High Sierra traverse, I was positive that detail was irrelevant. And I was a “weekend warrior” in the Northeast for eight years, I’ve snowshoed and backpacked the New England winter throughout the White Mountains, so I’m not afraid of a little snow. How bad can it be? And my leave dates from work were already approved. I didn’t want to cancel and waste all of my planning.

Most importantly, I felt confident in my conditioning and fitness. Since my initial injury, with the help of our coaches I stayed consistent in the gym, remembering that you should never let what you can’t do interfere with what you can. I learned valuable movement modifications, focused carefully on form and proper technique, and continued to strengthen stabilizer and surrounding muscle. Many people live very active lives ACL-compromised. With the support of the coaching staff, I felt physically as prepared as I was ever going to be.

So off I went, leaving on July 13th, with a plan to head Northbound. The weather reports were for sunny and hot weather in the valley, but trail reports indicated some continued snow throughout the southern passes. But in a dynamic and changing environment like the Sierras in the summer, you can never really know what trail conditions are like until you view them for yourself.

After hiking-in via Cottonwood Pass Trail, approximately 20 miles south of the southern terminus of the JMT, I ran into some very fit PCT hikers who were planning a 1 am ascent of Mount Whitney, to catch the sunrise. I wouldn’t be able to keep up with them, but I asked if I could join them for the beginning – the group would add motivation and an extra measure of safety. They were completely welcoming and agreed, and when 1 am arrived, off we went. I kept up for a short while but dropped-back, knowing that they were well acclimatized and I was only on my second full day in the mountains.

I soon encountered a vast frozen snowfield in the dark, but with GPS and microspikes, I was able to find the trail without too much difficulty. But by about 13,500 feet I was clearly noticing the effects of the altitude (public service announcement: approximately 20% of people experience altitude sickness symptoms at 8,000 feet, with that number increasing to 40% by 10,000 feet). I felt incredibly weak as if I was moving through a sea of molasses, and my heart rate was much too high for the pace I was maintaining, my watch told me 90 beats per minute practically standing still.

Increased heart rate, headache, fatigue, as well as impaired decision making and confusion, are classic signs of altitude sickness – but I didn’t have a headache yet, and I seemed to be able to maintain conversations with the people I was with and whom I was passing (I was deliberately testing this). But by the time I was within sight of the ranger hut at the summit, I was nauseous and counting sets of 10 paces and pausing to rest. I quickly signed the summit log, took photos of the USGS benchmark, and, after a brief appreciation of the stunning view, knew that I should head down right away.

The first test of the trip, and one that made me nervous about the ultimate success of the endeavor – I just learned how my body initially reacted to altitude, and it was a major hindrance. That night I developed a cough, which persisted the next morning. In the back of my mind was a slight fear of HAPE – High Altitude Pulmonary Edema – a condition in which decreased atmospheric pressure causes capillaries in the lungs to swell and leak fluid, resulting in symptoms mimicking bronchitis. The first pass after Whitney, Forester, is the highest in the Sierras at 13,453 feet, and reports from southbound hikers described the approach as snow-covered with some challenging snow cover up to the pass. The plan was to complete passes in the morning, while the snow remains frozen and is more easily navigated with spikes rather than risk trying to climb slush, and that would mean sleeping at altitude the night before. Hopefully, my body would adapt quickly.

The next night, camping at the base of Forester, I awoke startled, heart racing, my tent shuddering in the high mountain wind, suddenly fearful that I left my gear unsecured and that it was all blowing away! I leaped out of my tent to check and everything was fine, everything had been properly stowed, but apparently, the altitude was still playing tricks on me. Sleeplessness and elevated heart rate at night are more signs I was not quite adapted to the elevation yet.

But, with microspikes and digging-in with my trekking poles to climb the snowpack, I made it over Forester Pass early in the morning. Approaching the pass by the light of the nearly full moon was breathtaking. I continued to be unable to eat well – I had managed to get down a dehydrated dinner each evening, but while trekking during the day I was barely forcing down a bar or energy gels, occasionally fighting a gag reflex. One can see how a potentially vicious cycle can develop – loss of sleep and loss of appetite in the context of continued daily exertion. Without proper recovery, the body can quickly start to break-down. But the highest mountain and the highest pass were behind me, and while there was much more challenge ahead, I felt like I was building momentum. And the rewards of the difficult travel were spectacular.

Glen and Pinchot passes followed, and I arrived at the south fork of the King’s River, in the heart of King’s Canyon National Park. Another element of the high snow year is that it translates into more water everywhere. As John Muir said, “the snow is melting into music, “ which was so absolutely true; but the snow was also melting into creeks, streams, and rivers swollen to bursting that all presented potentially dangerous obstacles.

There is a sign posted at the intersection of the trail at the south fork of the King’s River that strongly recommends an alternative crossing 1.5 miles to the North, and the reasons for that are completely clear when viewing the river at the trail: it’s rapids. No one in their right mind would try and cross there. In 2017, there were two deaths at that location. So, proceeding North, about 50 meters upstream, I saw a spot on the river that, with a moment of inspection, looked like a good crossing: the river was divided by an island, appeared more shallow and slower-moving, and had a large log across the opposite bank. I set out across and reached the island in the middle without difficulty. I then proceeded across to the opposite bank, upstream of the large log.

I misjudged the strength of the current pulling under the log. I was very quickly and suddenly swept off my feet. I managed to grab the log and hold on, my entire body and pack submerged with only my face and neck above water, very fearful in that instant that I would be pulled under the log, caught on branches or rocks, and drown. I pulled up against the current and slowly inched back along the log with my hands until I reached slower moving water and could stand. My glasses were fogged-over and I was jack-hammering violently, more from adrenaline than from the cold. My trekking poles were gone – a crucial piece of gear for balance and stabilization across challenging terrain like snow, ice, and water – and I needed to get back from where I’d come. I was still in the middle of the river. Controlling my fear as best as I could I faced the current, bracing against it without additional aid, and concentrated on choosing my steps carefully through my foggy glasses to return to the bank where I began. Somehow I made it. I had slept the night before at a campsite right near the river crossing. Arriving there, I immediately stripped off my wet clothes and put on my mid-layers, kept in waterproof stuff-sacks within my pack. I was calmer once I was dry. The campsite had established fire-pits, and I set about making a fire with kindling and paper from my permit, more for comfort than for actual warmth. After a few minutes some of the guys I camped with the night before woke-up, and, after hearing the explanation for what I was doing, offered assistance, helping me get the fire going and maintain it. All was well.

One of their group was having some knee issues and they were leaving the trail (the irony was not lost on me), and they generously welcomed me to join them. But this would still mean going back over the passes where I had come from. There were two major passes still ahead before my resupply point and things promised to get easier: Mather and Muir. Trail reports of Mather were mixed – apparently, there remained a dicey snow and ice-covered section at the very top of the pass, no more than several feet, but sketchy and potentially dangerous. Muir was not reported to have any risky sections, but to still be six miles of snow on either side of the pass, and a grueling slog. I was concerned about doing both of these without trekking poles. Poles were absolutely necessary on the ascent of Forester, where I used them to dig-in to the snow and ice wall I needed to ascend in the absence of crampons and an axe. And poles make a big difference crossing sun-cupped snowfields. Six miles of that without support seemed daunting. But as I sat by the fire talking to my new friends I glanced at the firewood we were collecting and saw exactly what I had been looking for a moment ago: the perfect hiking stick. I sawed-off a couple of unnecessary limbs and tested it: it had a perfect bend at the top for my grip and tapered nicely to a sturdy point at the base. My morale continued to improve, and I made the decision to press on. I was back on the trail by lunchtime.

Mather pass was challenging, but the ten questionable steps at the very top of the pass proved manageable. Muir Pass was an absolute grind as predicted, but not dangerous – true to the trail reports, it was frozen snow-field after frozen snow-field for six miles, but I could keep putting one foot in front of the other in the absence of the fear of real risk of injury. Amidst all the challenge, pausing and observing the breathtaking and unreal beauty I was surrounded by was immediately rejuvenating.

After Muir, physically and mentally the remainder of the trip was much easier. In an additional week, the snowmelt was proceeding rapidly, and while there were some challenging days, there were none that tested me as those of the first week, and it became increasingly clear that I was actually going to complete the trip. The thumping in my chest when I approached the sound of a fast-moving river dissipated, water running over rocks returned to being a source of relaxation. The time on the trail was broken-up by civilization – Muir Trail Ranch, Vermillion Valley, Red’s Meadow, Tuolumne Meadows – the feeling of Western outposts in the mid-1800s, riding into town off the dusty trail for a hot bath, a hot meal, and the warmth of conversation with fellow travelers. Ultimately I spent seventeen days and an early morning on the trail, covering approximately 238 miles of gorgeous California country, before taking the bus back home. I lost about 10 pounds.

What happens in the Box should absolutely not stay in the Box. At every ability level, your consistent training is developing a broad-based physical and mental functionality that equips you to fully celebrate life with courage and enthusiasm. And the connections you build in the Box and in the broader CrossFit community will raise you up even more. I’m an average gym member. I was definitely not the most “mountain fit” on the trail! But when it counted I was conditioned enough to fight through the altitude, lift myself out of a strong river current when I needed to, concentrate on telling my body what to do when panicked or fatigued, and mentally strong enough to know that one more “rep” is always possible when traversing seemingly endless, climbing snowfields with wet feet. These are all rehearsed skills in CrossFit, and they all apply equally to a day hike at the local park or a planned completion of the Seven Summits. Train for life.

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Sheila R. Reed
Sheila R. Reed
August 9, 2021 2:53 pm

Praise God for keeping you safe!

Shay Pascale
Shay Pascale
September 24, 2019 3:40 pm

This was a great story and an impressive feat, great job Jay, thanks for sharing.

Rob
Rob
August 23, 2019 7:04 pm

Love this guy – impressive writing and accomplishment!

Jay
Jay
August 25, 2019 6:18 pm
Reply to  Rob

Thanks Rob! I’m trying…I’ve gotta read some more Jack London and Jon Krakauer…Sebastian Junger is great too

Susan Winn
Susan Winn
August 23, 2019 6:44 am

Jay, you’re amazing! Congratulations on making the trip and sharing your adventure!

Jay
Jay
August 25, 2019 6:19 pm
Reply to  Susan Winn

Thank you so much! I wish I’d written more about the amazing people you meet along the way when doing something like this – accomplishments are definitely never solo! And all the support from the gym community was amazing and definitely kept me going to.

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