Adventure in the High Sierra
Over the years, I've gone backpacking in some of our nation's most spectacular outdoor destinations, including the Tetons, the Olympic rainforest, the Great Smoky Mountains, and the Colorado Rockies. But it's been a long-time dream of mine to reach this one particular, obscure spot: Dusy Basin, deep in Kings Canyon National Park. This was the summer I finally made it, as my trusty backpacking buddy Mark and I overcame the odds and the logistical hurdles of travel during this strange time for our country and the world, and trekked our way into an alpine fantasy land in the High Sierra of California. All that mattered up here were the mountains, the clear, crisp air at 12,000 feet elevation, and the unforgettable light.
In a typical year, this type of “serious” backpacking trip is something that I don’t often get a chance to do, between my normally busy work schedule of photo tours, scouting for potential new tours, and selling my images at art shows across New England. Of course, in the one year where all of those things vanish into non-existence, The “Covid Year,” a business like mine that is based on travel is forced to scale back tremendously and do what it can much closer to home (and for a while, operate literally from the home).
While in theory, this leaves me with more time, the same travel restrictions and closures that have affected my work meant that an ambitious backpacking trip would be even more of a challenge this year than any other year. Mark and I had actually made our back-country reservations six months in advance, before Covid was even on our radar. And as the world changed around us, ebbing and flowing with every week, we changed our minds about pursuing this adventure seemingly as often, all the way up to June, one month before our departure, when we finally committed to it once and for all. So off we went, me from Boston, Mark from Kansas City, with masks and hand sanitizer and some ginormous backpacks, for what would probably be my last trip for quite a while.
I mapped my route for this adventure using Gaia GPS, which can produce a customized map of any area, and generated a PDF file which I printed on a single piece of 8.5x11 paper and then laminated, to keep in my backpack as a failsafe in case all our navigation devices decided to die. Modern technology is great for stuff like this. So much better than carrying a huge foldout map that contains more area than I need, like I would have years ago.
When a photographer goes backpacking, it can be a real conflict of interests. My everyday camera backpack has about 30 pounds of metal and glass in it, but clearly I couldn’t bring all of that if I was also packing all my stuff for living on the trail. What to bring? What to leave behind? Pure agony. Most non-photographers’ priority on the trail is simply to reduce weight, to make the trek easier over the miles at high elevation. I try to do the same, shaving ounces wherever I can... And then I throw ten pounds of camera gear on top of that. Ugh.
This is the beautiful National Geographic map of the area of our adventure. The red line shows our route.
For on-trail navigation, I use a handheld GPS like this one.
Everything for eating, sleeping, wearing, and doing photography must fit in here. There’s really no way to go light when you’re a photographer, is there? The Fjallraven Kajka backpack keeps it all contained.
So in the end, this is my version of reduction. A Sony A7III full-frame camera, a lightweight Benro travel tripod, and my Tamron 15-30 2.8, which I never leave at home.
This is what it looks like to carry everything you need to live on the trail and take decent pictures.
Coming straight from Massachusetts, where everything is pretty much at sea level, there’s no way to truly prepare yourself for an adventure in the High Sierra, no matter how much you train. At elevations approaching 12,000 feet, the air is thin enough for your lungs, your muscles, and your brain to feel it, especially on the steep upward climbs, and it’s worse for some than others. Your body needs more red blood cells to function properly up here, and it takes several days for you to produce enough of them.
Me and my buddy Mark, at the highest point on the trek, Bishop Pass. We’re all smiles, because it’s all downhill from here. Until we head home, and then it sucks again.
After a very full day of hiking, and a lot of wheezing and whooping, we made it to Dusy Basin. There’s no better feeling than reaching your destination for the night and setting up camp. For non-photographers this would be a nice relaxing time, when you wind down for the evening, and kick back with dinner and an early bedtime. But of course the light decided to get nice, so for me, the second part of the work was just beginning.
This is the alpine fantasy land known as Dusy Basin. More than a few people, including myself, have noticed that it doesn’t look like earth here. It certainly felt surreal to walk this granite and see this view, after having dreamt about it for so long. This perspective is actually so vast that my ultrawide can’t capture it all in one frame. This image is actually a mini-panorama that has been cropped to appear as a single full-frame image.
Over the next few days and nights, I experienced the Basin under a variety of conditions, some worth photographing, some not. Clear, cloudless skies were not the most flattering look for the landscape, compared to the delicate purple clouds of the first evening, so I was more than content to eat my way through certain sunsets like a regular backpacker would.
It gets chilly in the high alpine environment as the sun goes down. The only cure for this is re-hydrated lasagna. If you’re looking for a great outer layer for adventure, this is the Fjallraven Bergtagen Eco-Shell jacket.
While clear nights make for boring sunsets, they keep me up late doing star photography. It’s important to not just go wandering off from camp in the middle of the night, because you will get hopelessly lost. There are no roads, markers, or trails up here. Just pure wilderness. Make sure you scout your locations during the day, and practice going between your shooting location and your camp while it’s still light out. Mark the location of your campsite in your handheld GPS, and bring it with you in case you do get lost.
Most of what I do between sunrise and sunset could be accomplished with really compact gear, and even a newer smartphone. But when the light gets dim, there is no substitute for my trusty (and heavy) camera equipment. For shots like this, on the calm and clear nights, where every bit of detail matters, the gear is worth its weight in gold.
Who knows what the future will bring in these uncertain times, but it does seem that adventures like these will be few and far between. But the hard reality is that most human eyes will never get to see a place quite like this, so remote, beautiful, rugged, and pure, and for that I feel especially blessed that I have had these opportunities in my life and career.
Tentin Quarantino. This is my take on the lit-up tent shot. In the spirit of one-upmanship, I have two tents in mine. In order to beat me, you will need three tents.
The NEOWISE comet makes an appearance over the Sierra granite. What an incredible setting in which to experience this once-in-a-lifetime event. I was blessed with two consecutive clear nights for stargazing.
Mark sure knows how to make an exit.
Kanab the BlueHour mascot made it to Dusy Basin. Perhaps the first plastic lizard to ever experience this landscape. He is more well-traveled than most humans, I’d say. He took a Covid test after the trip was over, and it came back negative!