Backpacker

elderly, and while his visits usually involved plumbing or electricalwork, they were as much social calls as repair jobs. He made a pointof dropping in on older clients who lived alone, just to check on them.Day 6: SaturdayI wake up feeling light, agile, and as capable in the backcountry as Iever have. Today I realize I’m no longer searching for Pops. I’m expe-riencing firsthand why he chose to return here four years in a row.I pack up camp early, before the sun hits, just like Pops would. Evenwith gloves my hands are numb from the early-morning cold. The hiketo Thunderbolt Pass warms me up, and I explore the most direct route,which is not the easiest. There are signs of three recent rockslides. Butthe traverse goes well, even with a full pack, and I’m convinced this isthe way Pops would have gone. But then how did he disappear?If only he hadn’t been alone. In recent years, I have hiked withPops in Yosemite, Glacier, the Grand Canyon, and Yellowstone. Butin that time I never joined him at Barrett Lakes. I see now that hisregular spot has a beauty to rival its big-name competition. Granitebenches terrace down to the water, creating an amphitheater belowThunderbolt Peak and Knapsack Pass, with views of the toothyPalisades. It’s stunning, and with each step I regret never sharing thisarea with him.As I come up to the first and largest lake, I sense the excitementPops would have felt arriving after such a long and difficult hike. Hewould have been giddy at the prospect of six beautiful lakes full oftrout and set against a panorama of 14,000-foot peaks, an impossiblyblue sky, and clouds straight from an artist’s easel.At the edge of the first lake, out of habit, I look down for fish. In mymind, Pops is about 50 yards away, and both of us are about to cast.I now know those days will only be a memory and I am wracked bygrief anew.At the second lake, I run into a group of eight searchers. I thankeach one individually, and tell them a little bit about Pops and howhe loved this spot.In the late afternoon, I reach Pops’s last known campsite. It’slocated on a granite bench, flat as a board and big enough for a dozentents, bordered on three sides by water. The ribbon-like lake is theprettiest one I’ve seen in the basin. The green water reflects the snowand Knapsack Pass.On the way here I thought about what to do once I arrived, andnow I have two tasks. First, I write “Pops” on the granite by makingletters out of snow and take a self-portrait with the sign. I have a tonof people to reach out to when I get home, and this will help.``````Next, I set about building a memorial out of stones. It takes an hourto find the perfect spot, on a little rock shelf overlooking the campsite.After wrestling 40-pound boulders into place, I’m pleased with theresult: a 4-foot-high structure with a long triangular stone as a cap.Day 7: SundayIt’s time to return home. The weather is changing, winter is coming.The search is over.It only takes me an hour and a half to reach Thunderbolt Pass. As Istand there for the third time, waves of sobbing overcome me as I lookdown on Pops’s beloved spot. It’s so windy now that I don’t botherwiping my eyes; the gusts dry them.I take my highest line yet between Thunderbolt Pass and BishopPass. Now on my fourth trek between the two passes, I am completelycertain this is the route my dad took. It’s not an easy scramble, butit’s doable with hiking poles and you don’t lose elevation just to gainit back. There are sweeping views with every step and Pops alwaysloved vistas. But it’s not without hazards. Passing right below massivepeaks, a hiker would have little time to react to falling rocks, and Inote again the signs of recent slides. I encounter a dozen more search-ers between the passes, but they have no news except this: The SAReffort has been officially called off due to storms in the forecast.On the final descent to the trailhead, I think about my father’squiet wisdom, and what he might have said now. I recall a timewhen I was a teenager, and I was worried about something as weplayed a game of H-O-R-S-E on our driveway basketball court. Hetold me that the only thing you should worry about is doing yourbest. When you know you’ve done your best, the rest is out of yourcontrol and silly to worry about.I play the week back in my mind, recalling all the searchers, allthe miles hiked. There will be much sorrow to come. But as the snowstarts falling, I think, We did our best, Pops. We did our best. n``````Editor’s note: On July 8, 2017, hikers found Bob Woodie’s body100 yards from the trail near Bishop Pass. It appears he hadtaken shelter from extremely strong winds—gusts of 100 mphwere recorded that day—among boulders. He had his gear withhim but succumbed to hypothermia. Windblown snow likelycovered him and his tracks, concealing his location from search-ers. The Bob Woodie Memorial Endowment, established inpartnership with the Sierra Club, will support efforts to connectunderprivileged kids with nature. Donations can be made atsierraclub.org/BobWoodieMemorial.``````From left : The author creates a fl eetingmemorial; view from Bob Woodie’s campsiteat Barrett Lakes, looking toward Knapsack Pass;a helicopter searches the terrain aroundThunderbolt Pass; the tracks of all the SAR teams(at its peak, the effort included 120 volunteerand professional searchers).PHOTOS PROVIDED BY ROBERT WOODIEBACKPACKER.COM 75