The hike started at 8 in the morning next to the South Fork of Bishop Creek, at the bottom of a canyon lined on both sides by 2,000-foot granite ridges. The sun still hadn’t risen over the canyon’s sides and the air was still cold.

We crossed a footbridge over the creek, its banks filled with greenery and wildflowers. Climbing higher, we entered an open forest of pines, aspen, and mahogany growing over sagebrush, ocean spray, and wildflowers. Crimson columbine stood out against the granite boulders, buckwheat grew in yellow pillows, Wyoming paintbrush sprayed pink and yellow, and pennyroyal grew in fragrant purple tufts. When we passed a small stream, among its greenery we saw bold orange Kelley’s tiger lilies along with yellow arrowleaf groundsel, purple lupine, and more paintbrush.

Once we gained a little elevation, we left the shade of the canyon and were warmed instantly by the sun. We climbed up switchbacks through an open forest of lodgepole pine, chinquapin, and Labrador tea. The latter was striking, with its densely-leaved branches ending in densely-bunched white flowers.

We hiked through the thick willows surrounding the first, small Tyee Lake and stopped on its sandy shore for a snack, admiring its dark blue waters backed by a sparsely forested granite ridge. Long grass snaked below its surface near the shore. As we left, we saw a few white bog orchids growing beneath the willows.

Clouds formed while we hiked to the third Tyee Lake, giving us some welcome shade. When we got to it, it was much larger than the other two and its shore was a wide band of big boulders. Elizabeth and I, hounded by mosquitoes, scrambled over the boulders to the water, where a breeze kept the bugs away. On the other side of the lake, cliffs rose to the broad plateau of Table Mountain, the group’s destination today.

I took note of some of the vegetation next to the lake. There were whitebark pines, their trunks twisted and their tops flagged by the wind. At the ends of their branches were either purple cones dripping with sap or pollen cones looking like little strawberries. There were also yellow Arnica sunflowers, purple Jeffrey’s shooting stars, lilac wandering daisies, tall sticky cinquefoils with cream and yellow flowers, and nude buckwheat.

When our group left the lake for Table Mountain, it was time for Elizabeth and me to turn around, so we said our goodbyes and started hiking back down to our car. Leaving the large group we’d been hiking with for three days and hiking alone was a little revelation. Gone were the footsteps and chatter of other hikers and in their place were birds, leaves, and wind; silence. The clouds had accumulated and turned gray, and as we passed by the first lake again, a few drops of rain fell.

Just before reaching the car I saw a small white flower I hadn’t seen on the way up. I walked over to it and was delighted to see that it was a Leichtlin’s mariposa lily, a new species of Calochortus for me, and the first I’d seen since all of the fairy lanterns on Mount Diablo this April. A fine end to our hike.

We stopped for lunch at the Whoa Nellie Deli in Lee Vining, famous among frequent travelers on California’s Route 395 for serving gourmet food out of a Mobil gas station at the edge of the desert. This was our first time there, but our delicious seasoned burgers ensured that we’d be back.

It was 62 degrees with clear skies as we got out of our cars. We got on the trail and hiked along Lake Sabrina, climbing over a hill and enjoying early morning views of the lake and the mountains. This hill was pleasant now, but it would get us on the way back as one last climb at the end of a long day.

We gradually climbed past the lake through what turned out to be my favorite landscape today: a wonderful mix of sagebrush, mountain-mahogany, and aspen, filled with wildflowers. The effect was a scene of subtle shades of silver, gold, and olive, but with hidden colors from red Eaton’s firecracker, scarlet gilia, pink Wyoming paintbrush, yellow buckwheat, purple lupine, and white phlox and angelica.

Past the end of the lake, we followed switchbacks through a lodgepole pine forest dense with mosquitoes. I had long pants and sleeves to keep them off, but there were enough of them here that I put on my headnet to protect my face and neck.

At the end of the switchbacks, we came out of the forest and got our first views of the peaks of the Evolution Region rising to over 13,000 feet.

As we climbed some more, the trail zigzagged through talus slopes with vast numbers of cream and pink columbines growing between the rocks, an impressive display on seemingly inhospitable terrain. Some of the pink ones were rare hybrids between Coville’s and crimson columbines, only possible where their ranges overlap.

We continued gaining elevation, winding around too many lakes, ponds, and meadows to remember. The meadows were filled with mosquitoes as well as wildflowers, and my hands, the only part of my body left unprotected, suffered a few bites, but I considered them a small price to pay for the scenery.

Where the trail crossed the Middle Fork of Bishop Creek, the creek was some 50 yards wide and the boulders strung across it for hikers were partially submerged. Getting to the other side with our feet dry seemed improbable no matter what, so Elizabeth and I just took off our shoes and forded the creek. The water was cold and knee-deep, but the sandy bottom made for comfortable walking, and when we put on our shoes on the other side of the creek, we felt refreshed.

Just after the creek crossing, we ran into a college friend of mine, Laura Rose, who had coincidentally started on a 10-day backpacking trip with family and friends yesterday. They were carrying far more gear than we were and as a result had taken two days to walk what had taken us a few hours. Elizabeth and I talked with them for a while before parting ways and continuing with our own group, arriving at Midnight Lake a little before noon.

The granite mountains and snowy gullies of the Evolution peaks were reflected in the lake’s cobalt water and a few tents were hidden in the pines.

Our group stopped for lunch and a few of them went swimming in the lake. Elizabeth and I watched for a while and then decided that we should try a dip, too. So, after we finished eating, we went behind some whitebark pines and changed into swimming clothes.

I went in first, stepping carefully on the rocks along the shore and wading into the icy water until I was in up to my knees. I walked to the edge of an underwater cliff, where the water in front of me was a cold blue with no bottom in sight. I could already feel my legs and feet getting numb. Not wanting to prolong my anticipation, I dove in. My body immediately wanted to get out. I only swam a little circle before making my way back to shore, shivering.

Elizabeth jumped in next. After watching my pathetic display, she didn’t want to repeat it, so she made sure to keep her swimming composed and slow, without complaints.

We began to dry ourselves in the sun, but when the mosquitoes started to bite us, we decided against it and changed back into our hiking clothes. By the time we got dressed, our group was about to leave the lake for the hike back and Elizabeth and I felt fresh and rejuvenated from our swim.

We didn’t see Laura Rose’s group on our way back; they had probably set up camp at one of the many lakes off the main trail. The day had become warm and sunny, and when we reached the last hill before getting to our cars it was 82 degrees and we could see the Owens Valley baking in the sun.

It was 58 degrees with clear skies when we started our hike at 8 this morning, unusually warm for our 9,800-foot elevation. Temperatures stayed comfortable for us all day as we ventured above 11,000 feet, but down in Bishop they reached over 100 degrees.

As we started our hike along South Lake toward Bishop Pass, the evidence of a rainy June was all around us. The streamsides, meadows, forests, and even the sagebrush were filled with wildflowers. The woods near the trailhead had lavender Sierra shooting star, purple-topped swamp onion, red paintbrushes, yellow groundsel, charming white rangers’ buttons, striking blue monkshood and mountain larkspur, and mountain snowberry with its dangling cream-colored flowers.

But the rain also brought out mosquitoes, which were a constant presence during our hike. In some places, particularly near lakes and meadows, we’d see whole clouds of them hovering over the willows, forcing Elizabeth and me to don our headnets.

We started in a forest of aspen, lodgepole pine, and labrador tea, and then climbed through woodlands of whitebark pine, spending most of the day hiking over little ridges and crossing flower-filled meadows and streams as we traveled from one timberline lake to another.

Our group stopped for a short break at the saddle north of Ruwau Lake, then started climbing cross-country to the top of 11,682-foot Chocolate Peak.

The climb was a brief Class 1 scramble, but I hadn’t been to the Sierra since last September and I was excited by the scenery, the fine weather, and the exertion. There was a wholesomeness to the climbing, and I hurried ahead until I was short of breath, eager to exhaust myself.

The views from the top were excellent, not because Chocolate Peak is taller than the surrounding mountains, but because it is shorter. We had a sense of floating in the middle of an alpine wonderland, with dark blue lakes 1,000 feet below us and jagged peaks rising 2,000 feet above us.

To our east was the Inconsolable Range, one of the best-named mountain ranges in the Sierra Nevada with peaks like Aperture, Picture Puzzle, and Cloudripper. To our west was the light granite summit of Hurd Peak. To our south was Bishop Pass and the Sierra crest. And finally, to our north, a mile and a half below us, was the Owens Valley.

We left the summit, hiked down to Ruwau Lake, and then passed Long Lake. The latter was large enough to have forested islands in it, a spectacular sight. The lake and the islands, as well as the Sierra crest behind them, all glowed in the afternoon sun as we made our way back to camp.

This was my first chance to come back here in years, so I planned to take advantage of it by climbing a new Catskill High Peak. There was a chance of an afternoon thunderstorm, but after living in the stormless Bay Area, I considered the possibility an attraction rather than a threat.

Elizabeth and I drove to the end of Prediger Road, where we parked at the eastern terminus of the Devil’s Path and got ready for our hike. We walked out into a forest of hardwoods and dark green hemlocks, greeted by the song of a wood thrush. It was 68 degrees and everything was still wet from yesterday’s rain, but for now the forest alternated between sun and shade under partly cloudy skies.

Walking along the Devil’s Path, we went through a fine forest of mature hemlocks and northern hardwoods, with trees of all ages as well as fallen logs rotting on the forest floor. Here were sugar maples with their shaggy gray bark and yellow birches with their peeling gold bark, serious beech trees next to tall black cherries and white ashes, and hemlocks creating gloomy shade beneath their boughs [1].

We felt as though we were out in the wilderness, but the Devil’s Path paralleled a road for a while and we were reminded of this by the sound of a riding lawnmower.

We made it to the intersection for the trail to Indian Head Mountain in good time, but I tried not to be too optimistic, since my previous experience in the Catskills suggested that the path to the summit would be much more difficult than the one we’d taken so far.

Higher now, and farther from the road, the sound of the lawnmower was replaced by rustling leaves and bird songs. In the distance we heard something like a siren. But when we stopped to listen, other sirens joined in and we realized we were actually listening to the wild yelps of coyotes.

As we walked on, the trail got rockier, and the unusually rainy weather of the last few weeks had turned the path into a small stream. A few of the steeper sections had us climbing little waterfalls, and Elizabeth and I were having more and more fun as our hands and feet got muddier.

We stopped for a break where the trees and shrubs were low enough for some views of the forested mountains extending to the horizon, and Elizabeth had a snack while I inventoried the plants around us.

We were high enough for red spruce, a conifer found on ridge tops throughout the Appalachian Mountains, to join the eastern hemlock. There were also some broadleaf trees: yellow birch and red maple in the canopy and striped maple in the understory. Closer to the ground were hobblebush with its white flowers, blue-bead lily next to a rotting log, and hay-scented fern [2].

Shortly after our break, we reached our first challenge, a nearly vertical 20-foot cliff. I looked left and right for a footpath but found none. Did we really have to go straight up? Elizabeth spotted a trail marker on a tree root growing out of the cliff about 10 feet up, giving us our answer.

Elizabeth climbed first while I stayed behind to take photos. Thankfully, she had no trouble getting to the top. I followed, and the climbing was in fact easy, with big ledges for our feet and tree roots in all the right places for our hands.

After some more steep trail above the cliff, we followed a short path off-trail to an overlook from the top of the cliff we’d just climbed. It was a fine reward for our climbing: endless green mountains below puffy white clouds, an entirely unexpected view this close to New York City.

But we could also see that the clouds had thickened since we’d started. We heard a faint rumble that we thought was a plane, but as it grew louder we realized it was thunder. We still had some climbing to do and neither of us wanted to be on a ridge during a storm, so we hurried back onto the trail. A moment later we heard a louder, more insistent roll of thunder.

We were high enough now to be in the boreal forest common to Catskill ridges: red spruce, balsam fir, and yellow birch. The forest around us had never been logged, but the trees were still no taller than 20 feet, a consequence of the harsh growing conditions [3]. The trail went through soft, dark mud covered with fallen needles, and the air was filled with the sounds of flying insects and smelled of balsam.

We reached a second climb, a crack between two big boulders that was shorter than the first, but steeper. A worn log had fallen into the crack and I wedged my feet between it and the rock and reached up and grabbed another part of it to pull myself up. The climbing was wet and slippery, and when looking for handholds I nearly crushed a slug.

After that climb, we walked along the ridge through a coniferous forest filled with the Christmas-tree smell of balsam. Elizabeth and I rambled along the ridge, having a great time hiking through the woods and scrambling up and down easy rock ledges.

I wondered when we’d reach the summit and I looked for a sign, a summit register, or just a lookout. But I didn’t notice any location that was particularly summit-like. We began gradually descending, and by the time we scrambled down a small cliff, I decided that we had simply walked past the summit without noticing it.

We kept descending until we reached the intersection with the Jimmy Dolan Notch Trail, where we stopped for a break on a pleasant grassy patch surrounded by an unwelcoming tangle of vegetation. The forest looked like an abandoned orchard that had been taken over by the wilderness, where 15-foot-high black birches with peeling gray bark and twisting branches grew amid spruce trees.

By the time we continued hiking, the sky had darkened and the trails branching off from the intersection disappeared into a nearly black forest. Thunder began rolling slowly over the mountains, but it was unthreatening. A little later, we saw big white drops of rain streaking into the forest on nearby Twin Mountain, coming toward us.

A moment later, we heard rain drops clapping against the leaves above us. I put on my rain jacket and Elizabeth got out her umbrella. Anything in our packs that was threatened by rain went into plastic bags.

As we walked, I imagined the rain falling on the spruces and fir on the ridge and on the hardwoods and hemlocks in the valley, falling on the rocks and cliffs, and falling on the coyotes and on the frogs and salamanders and newts we saw on the trail.

The rain and thunder lasted until we returned to the car, but the forest canopy held much of it off, and the rocks didn’t get much wetter than they already were. We were happy to have reached a new summit, and happy to have experienced a perfect summer day in the mountains with good views, fun scrambling, sun, and storms.

[1] The checklists by the Catskill Flora Project were extremely helpful in identifying the plants I saw.
[2] Thanks again, Catskill Flora Project.
[3] The Catskill Forest: A History by Michael Kudish covers the old-growth forests of the Catskill Mountains.