The Tent That Tried to Escape
Franklin Lakes, Big Five-Little Five Lakes, and Timber Gap Loop | October 2024
The first time I ever stepped foot in Sequoia National Park was technically a decade ago, during the John Muir Trail. But it hardly felt like visiting. That stretch is all about Mount Whitney — the obsession, the summit culture — and not so much about Sequoia itself. So, in my mind, I hadn’t really been.
A few months into living in my coop, wanting to remember what it felt like to be alone, I set out on a solo backpacking trip in Sequoia. And alone I was — over three days, I ran into fewer people than I live with, including at the trailhead.
The drive was a slog — my cautious pace on steep roads, combined with my uncanny ability to ignore my GPS, turned a supposed six-hour trip into something much longer. When I finally reached the trailhead, a couple of vehicles were parked, but no one was around. Still, it wasn’t eerie — it was beautiful. Crisp yellow leaves clung to bright trees, a brook chimed nearby, and the sky was wide and sharp.
The trail started flat, tracing the brook, before gradually climbing. Water spilled across the path in little waterfalls, and patches of balled-up snow and frostbitten plants tucked themselves into the shade — some of it set to the tune of Jim Dale (see video #2). Hiking uphill warmed me up, but the moment I stopped, a biting cold wrapped around me.
Because the drive had eaten into my day, I started later than planned — and my original campsite was suddenly out of reach. When nightfall hit and fatigue set in, I tried to pitch my tent... and the stakes ripped straight out of the ground in the howling wind. Before I could react, my tent, full of nothing but air, launched into the darkness and tumbled hundreds of yards away. I sprinted after it, heart hammering, sure it was gone for good. Somehow, miraculously, I caught it.
By then, adrenaline had wiped out my need of sleep, so I kept hiking. My new plan: reach Franklin Pass and hope the wind was tamer on the other side.
The trail turned sandy as I climbed. I was exhausted but also completely enchanted, walking under a spray of stars across soft, shifting ground. Crossing Franklin Pass felt like stepping into another world — the moon lit up the endless sandscape stretching out in front of me.
I finally found a sheltered, flat patch, pitched my tent, and crawled inside. I read a little East of Eden by headlamp, falling asleep with Steinbeck's Lisa’s warning echoing in my mind: people having a good time are "wide open to the devil."
Morning arrived soft and golden, the sun elbowing in while the moon still lingered overhead. After oatmeal, I set off again.
People always ask me two questions about solo backpacking: (1) Did you feel safe? and (2) What do you think about all day?
Short answers: (1) Yes, I felt safe. (2) Everything:
Did I have enough phone battery? (More on this later)
What should be our product strategy for 2025?
How far can I double 7 (7, 14, 28, …)?
This passage:
“Such a man doesn’t really die,” Adam said, and he was discovering it himself. “I can’t think of him dead. He seems maybe more alive to me than before.”
“That’s true,” said Will, and it was not true to him. To Will, Samuel was dead.
Somehow, even when the thoughts leaned sad, everything felt orderly and calm — just passing through.
Little Claire Lake was my favorite lake of the day — glassy and still, like it had been holding its breath for centuries. A perfect spot for water filtering.
Once again, the sun outpaced me. I stopped at Big Five Lakes for dinner, tucked my phone away to save what little battery I had left (😅), and let my feet do the navigating. There’s a line from East of Eden I couldn’t shake: “They laughed a great deal, as though to reassure themselves.” Same, same.
The highlight of the whole trip came while climbing the ridgeline near Five Lakes under the full moon. It was so bright I turned off my headlamp. The trail wove along the spine of the ridge, and below, the lakes caught the moonlight.
I don’t have any photos — just a flicker of memory when I close my eyes. A rocky path, a sense of weightlessness, a stillness so complete it felt imagined. I mean it’s probably not a true memory at all. It’s just a true feeling I keep turning into an image. A little sentimental, but like Abra says in East of Eden, “[I] want to tell only true things, even when [I’m] not quite sure what’s true.”
Then the beauty gave way to a grind. I wasn’t checking my map anymore — I couldn’t tell how much climbing was left to get to Black Rock Pass, only that it just kept not being over. Every time I thought I’d reached the top, there was more. The trail turned to sand again, and every step sank a little too deep, dragged a little too long.
Eventually, I got to the pass. The view was everything you'd expect.
I started down the other side, scanning for anything flat and wind-protected. When I finally found a spot, I pitched my tent and was asleep within 15 minutes.
The next morning, I woke up early and made the short tromp back to my car.
On the drive home, I treated myself to two Taco Bell bean burritos and a veggie Crunchwrap Supreme. Strongly recommend the combo.
I remember looking at the cheese oozing out of my Crunchwrap and thinking: “These too are of a burning color — not orange, not gold, but if pure gold were liquid and could raise a cream, that golden cream might be like the color of the poppies.” Steinbeck was talking about California poppies.
It was October, so there were no poppies.
But there is always Taco Bell.
Gorgeous trails, scenes, and above all the sentiments expressed.
thanks for writing this!