Caribou Lakes 55 Years Later

Late in August 1954, I climbed from Portuguese Camp on the Stuart’s Fork of the Trinity River the 2000 vertical feet up the to the pass on Sawtooth Ridge and then dropped down to Caribou Lake. I can't remember whether or not I spent a night on the lake, but that afternoon or the next, I took a look at the clouds, which threatened rain, and decided to go on down to Big Flat. Sixteen years old and having spent most of the last 2 months backpacking in the Alps with only my elder brother’s .38 special Smith and Wesson revolver for company, I walked on out in one afternoon and evening without any problem.

This July, fifty-five years later at 71, it took me 3 days to walk the perhaps 10 miles of the new trail from Big Flat back up to Caribou Lake. Quite a contrast! Being older and wiser, I had replaced the 4-pound revolver and holster with my beat-up, 4-pound guitar. But with grub for 6 days (i.e., about 12 pounds of dried foods plus a few delicacies), my load was heavier than that of the nearly empty-of-food GI rucksack I had carried out in 1954. This time, I had to pace myself to about 1 mile an hour to make it at all. So I camped Thursday night at Brown’s Meadow, perhaps 3 or 4 miles short of the first lake in the basin.

Friday, I rested, headed out after 3 pm and arrived at Snowslide Lake at about 6:30 pm. I cooked my dinner of mac and cheese and bedded down in a copse of black hemlock with red fir, lodgepole pine and western white pine all around. I got unduly upset at the little white-footed mouse trying to get at the granola in my pack and tossed a shoe his way. Happily, I missed, but I remember his big, dark, mouse-in-the-flashlight eyes contrasting with his white underparts. It would have been a shame to have hurt him. Fortunately, my sturdy internal frame pack seems impervious to small rodents.

Saturday, by-passing the trail down to the Lower Caribou Lake, I took only about 45 minutes to finally make it up to Caribou Lake, which lies at an elevation of about 6800 feet. Its heavily glaciated basin has little soil so that the red fir and black hemlock are scarce except on some parts of Sawtooth Ridge south of the lake. Immediately recognizable by its pendulous branchlets, one weeping spruce stands on the east side of the lake, a rather rare tree said to be a relic species unable to compete with other conifers except in very steep or rocky terrain. Another healthier specimen grows along the trail ascending from Snowslide Lake towards Big Flat.

Sunday, I rested again, but it threatened rain so I moved my camp further south from the outlet to a site on the granite that had room to set up my tube tent. The two young men camped there had welcomed me and my guitar the night before, and we had traded a few folk, pop and praise songs, including as I recall, “I Ride an Old Paint,” “Thou Art Worthy” and “He decidido seguir a Cristo.” They had headed back to McKinleyville earlier in the afternoon, leaving me alone on the lake as far as I could tell.

Monday, I climbed the 7700-foot peak southwest of the lake for the view of the glacial gorge at the head of the Stuart’s Fork of the Trinity River containing Emerald, Sapphire and Mirror Lakes and of the wall of granite beyond them. This magnificent scene speaks to me of the glory of the Creator. And I found myself calling on him for help as I descended by a different route through the cliffs on the west side of the Lake—a route I don’t advise for anyone not equipped for rock climbing. In the evening, I moved my camp back down to Snowslide Lake to give me a head-start on the long march back to Big Flat. It was warm for the mountains and my down sleeping bag was pretty hot, what with the hood closed down to a tiny nose hole to avoid being eaten alive by the many mosquitoes, which had been absent from the upper lake.

I took the new trail both ways given its gentler gradients, but horsemen prefer the old route. Although my pack was about 12 pounds lighter, Tuesday I was on the trail about 9 hours to get from Snowslide Lake to the Salmon River at Big Flat Campground. So on this trip I learned that I’m not the hiker I was 55 years ago, but the mountains remain magnificent.