Backpacker

BACKPACKER.COM 73from Barrett Lakes, there are only two likely routes Pops would havetaken to return to Bishop Pass and the trailhead. Both are off-trail,exponentially increasing the difficulty of pinpointing his track. Hewould have traveled as far as 6 miles from the nearest trail, and if he’dstrayed from the logical routes... The thought makes me sick.At the South Lake trailhead, my heart sinks to see Pops’s car parkedthere. It emphasizes the severity of the situation.If we can take consolation in anything, it’s that, after a wintry stormSunday, the late-October weather is clear and calm. It’s the shoulderseason, so I know the nights will be bitter cold at higher elevations,but at least it’s dry.Tim and I start up the trail and immediately begin to feel the eleva-tion. Both of us have just come from sea level, and we’re climbing to12,000 feet. We suffer from pounding headaches.It’s 6 miles to Bishop Pass, and about an hour before reaching it, Timspots a tan- and rust-colored tent exactly like Pops’s about 50 yards offthe trail. We notice the bear canister set well away from the tent just theway Pops would have done. We both rush to the site. The location—inplain view, right off the trail and so close to the trailhead—doesn’t makesense, but maybe he got injured on the way out. What else could explainhis delay? We’re sure we are about to find our dad. A blue backpack thesame color as Pops’s lies next to the tent and my heart jumps. But thenI see flip-flops he would never wear and a bottle of whiskey he wouldnever touch. The unoccupied tent is not his.My father always led a simple life; neither he nor my mom drankor smoked. I never even heard my father curse. His greatest vice is hissweet tooth. It’s one I inherited from (and share with) him. We favorthe chocolate chip cookies from Subway.At the pass, we meet three SAR volunteers wearing bright-orangejackets. They haven’t found any clues; our conversation is short buthopeful. The sun is shining and it’s still less than 48 hours since Popswent missing.We continue a mile down the trail into Dusy Basin. Tan-and-graygranite sweeps up the slopes. A dusting of snow from the previousday’s storm contrasts against the deep blues of lakes and sky. Days areshort this late in fall, and it’s nearly dark when we arrive. We find acampsite but it’s hard to go through the backpacking routine—pitch atent, cook a freeze-dried dinner, get into sleeping bags—knowing thatPops is out there somewhere, in trouble.Day 3: WednesdayLast night’s rest was fitful, a combination of worry and altitude sick-ness. The temperature dropped to about 15°F, and I needed to wearevery piece of clothing I packed to stay warm. Tim and I try not to dwellon what Pops might be going through if he’s without shelter and insu-lation right now. In recent years, he’s been forgetting key items like asleeping pad or long underwear. I pray this is not one of those times.Fortunately, we have plenty to do to keep our minds busy. Thanksto the radios, we know that a helicopter on the west side of KnapsackPass had spotted tracks in the snow. Knapsack and Thunderboltare the two off-trail passes Pops might have targeted on his returnfrom Barrett Lakes. (A SAR team had already checked the campsitethere, and Pops’s gear was gone, so we know he went astray whilehiking back on Sunday.) Tim and I decide to spend the day hiking toKnapsack Pass and back.It’s good to be in the backcountry with my younger brother again.I’m 53 and Tim is 51, and the demands of work and parenting havemade backpacking opportunities fewer and farther between. LikePops, if Tim is in pain he won’t show it on the trail. He was alwaystough during our childhood trips, when we used to hike off-trail asmuch as on. We adhered to the reliable philosophy: The harder it is toreach a lake, the bigger and more plentiful the fish will be.I enjoy creating my own route by scanning the terrain immedi-ately in front of me. This necessitates constantly lifting your headto check progress instead of simply keeping your eyes on a path. It’smuch slower than hiking a trail, but you’re constantly reminded of thebeautiful surroundings.After about 3 miles, less than an hour from Knapsack Pass, therocky terrain becomes so difficult that Tim and I need to store ourtrekking poles in our packs. Many times we have to use both hands tohoist ourselves up. I doubt that Pops would come this way with a fullpack. Too cumbersome.I’m not surprised when we find nothing at the pass or on theother side. On the way back to our camp in Dusy Basin, I take somecomfort in knowing that Pops had likely followed through on hisplan to fish Sunday morning before heading back. It’s an obsessionwith him. He takes pride in waking before dawn so he can makehis coffee and cast a line by first light. After a hard hike, instead ofrelaxing in camp, he will often fish until dark. Ironically, our catchesalways seem to be about the same despite all the extra time he putsin. But I know for him it’s not about the numbers; it’s his own formof spirituality.Day 4: ThursdayAfter the scramble to Knapsack Pass, I’m positive Pops would nothave taken that route if he could help it. This is his fourth year ina row hiking into Barrett Lakes, and by now he would have figuredout the fastest, easiest, and prettiest route. We decide to move ourbasecamp and search the route over Thunderbolt Pass, now the mostlikely option. There are SAR teams crisscrossing the wilderness (at itspeak, the effort includes 120 searchers and five helicopters) and wecheck in via radio on the way to Thunderbolt.PHOTOS BY GRANT ORDELHEIDE; PROVIDED BY ROBERT WOODIE (2)