Dorothy Fritters & Childhood Nostalgia Gone Awry

"Backpacking in the Sierras" 6"x9" Watercolors © Linnie Aikens Lindsay 2024

This is an embarrassing tale of the dumb stuff we do as young adults, thinking we are invincible and that our actions have no ramifications on others.  I share it here lest anyone think I am romanticizing my life or somehow blind or immune to my own faults!

For my first big hike without my parents, I decided to go back to Dorothy Lake, an old family stand-by and the location for my Sierra Symphonies story. I’d been going to college for three years and was suddenly feeling nostalgic for home and our backpacking trips.  I was 21. In my typical fashion, I’d only come to realize in hindsight as a M.O. in my life, I was a  woman who would always “go BIG and don’t go home (with my tail between my legs).”

I had talked a couple of athletic outdoorsy friends from church into going with me, saying that it wasn’t that hard of a hike.  I mean we were a bunch of little kids when we did it!  So went my reasoning and sales pitch. As we got closer to the trip, several other guys from church had just returned from doing almost the same trip, coincidentally.  They told me I wouldn’t be able to do this hike; that it was one of the hardest hikes they’d ever done. Big mistake!  I bragged that we had done that same trail at least a dozen times as kids, and privately thought they must be “wusses,” to use a term bandied about in my childhood home.

Backpacking in the early 1980’s as a young adult was a whole new experience.  That’s when I began to realize how much my dad had done in preparing me physically for the family vacation hikes, and my mom did in preparing everything else for those trips.  A lot of physical training went into preparing for a backpacking trip, conditioning and re-breaking in your boots as well as conditioning your feet. Even more preparation went into planning meals that were light enough for me to carry, with extra in case I got stuck for longer than I planned, first aid and emergency equipment, compass, map, flashlights, chords for extra tie-downs of tent and other things in the event of winds, a fishing pole, cooking and eating utensils, water to get me to the lake, hatchet, spade, tent, bag, pad, tarp, sketching journal and mini watercolor set, and of course, the smallest amount of clothes I could get away with, and a rain poncho and jacket, even in Summer. I practiced with my loaded 40 lb backpack, that very same beige Army Surpus pack, which had taken me two weeks to assemble, edit and reassemble so that it was only a little heavier than 30% of my weight.  I was a muscular woman; I could handle it.  I was ready and loaded for bear.

We were not even a half hour out when one of my friends twisted her ankle so badly, she couldn’t walk, and my other friend, her boyfriend, helped carry her back to the car. They’d decided it was wise to get her some medical attention, so they were going to cancel the trip until a week or so later.  They had the car, and well, quite frankly the driver’s license, which is why I was able to get there at all.  We sat there in the parking lot at Convict Lake discussing the situation, while he wrapped her ankle, and prepared to return home.  I was left torn between “wasting” all of the training I’d put myself through hiking and mountain biking every afternoon through the Santa Barbara mountains, resealing all the seams in my tent, stocking a first aid kit, and packing my backpack, and the more pressing obstacle of feeling like a quitter or coward, both anathemas to me. 

            Suddenly, I piped up, “What if I went alone?!!  I’ve done this trail a dozen times.  I’m not inexperienced.”  I laid out my case to my friends, whose skepticism was written all over their faces.  They threw a whole slew of flat-out-No’s, followed by “what ifs” after “what ifs” at me, hoping to dissuade me from what they were sure was stupidity if not sheer madness.  “Look, it’s only six miles from Lake Convict to Mildred Lake and another hour to Lake Dorothy.  That’s easily doable!  I am strong, fit, experienced and can take care of myself, and I am not stupid!” They’d raised an eyebrow at that last claim. I ignored it. I got it; I’d be a young woman alone in the John Muir Wilderness, and they felt responsible for me.  I told them to look around…the trail seemed more like a freeway compared to when I’d gone as a kid I explained to them.  There’s lots of people and even pack-mule teams that take this trail.  I even told them about the time we’d been up there one year and ran into a man who lived around the corner from us in Los Angeles that we’d never met before. I’m not sure “it’s a small world” was a valid reason in this case, but I was holding strong. 

After more harranguing and more than a little bit of cussing at my stubborness, they said they would be back in a week to hike up and join me and we’d go back together.  They gave me lots of phone numbers in case of an emergency, and I told them if there was really a problem, I’d call my dad and he’d come get me since he’d know where I was.  Of course, I didn’t tell them that I hadn’t even told my parents what I was doing, because they might think I wasn’t up to it yet.  More importantly, I kept pushing back the nagging knowledge of the dangers I could face.  Yeah, maybe it was a little stupid.  I mean we didn’t even have cell phones in those days, and I didn’t even drive.  Yeah, I was stupid and equally stubborn.

What was I thinking asking my friends to leave me in the wilderness alone?  “You AREN’T thinking!”  That’s what my dad would have said. The Sierras are unpredictable and dangerous in that severe weather could hit you out of nowhere. The skies and weather predictions could claim perfect sunny days, and then suddenly, you’d find yourself sitting in your pup tent for 6 days of lightening and stormy weather.  I knew this; it had happened to us.  Accidents were more likely than not on the unstable shale trails and jagged granite, and then there were the bears, etc. I assured myself that I was smart enough and experienced enough to know this, so I could not account for my stupid decision in light of this knowledge, except that I was a young person who was dumb enough to think she was somehow invincible.   And how selfish was I to saddle that sense of responsibility and worry on my friends’ shoulders?!  I did finally realize this and apologize to them profusely later, a little late however. I was so ashamed of my decision that it was also another reason I didn’t tell my folks. Well, some young people did drugs, and I did crazy, dumb, selfish, adventurous stuff sometimes.  This is one of those times highlighting God’s protection whether I deserved it or not.   By the grace of God went I.   That was becoming a mantra it seemed.

As I set out on the trail, after supplying my friends a rough itinerary and map of where I’d be hiking, presumably so they could send the rescue teams after me to locate my body, having been eaten by bears or mountain lions or buried in a sudden snow storm, I felt jubilant that I was reclaiming a bit of my childhood and sense of adventure on this trip. I’d rolled my eyes as I’d handed it to them, then put it out of my mind as I started out.  I occupied my thoughts with the stories dad had told us about how Convict Lake was named.  The story went that a group of criminals had escaped from jail in Carson City, Nevada in the 1870’s, only to meet their end in a shootout by a posse tracking them to the lake.  I was always enthralled with the lore of a location, and Dad had been an enthusiastic storyteller.

Once on the trail, I found myself turned around a few times second guessing myself, thinking I’d get to certain areas a mile or two sooner, like the Aspen grove or the log bridge, only to find things had moved or changed over the past five years of weather, erosion, trail upkeep, etc. I chided myself, “What a dumb thing to forget, Linnie!  Where was your brain? Nevermind; you can figure this out,” so went the range of self-talk.  I stood quietly for a few moments and looked around for trail clues and listened carefully. In the distance to the right I heard a quiet roar.  Ah, the river! I headed that way.  When I finally did get to the log bridge, it seemed both shorter than I remembered, but a lot more difficult. Worse, it was wet. I didn’t account for the possibility that glacier runoff might have caused Convict Creek to rise and move as strongly as a river, so that the spray from the rapids splashed liberally over the log. That just raised the crossibility danger meter 10 fold. Wet logs, meant slimy, slick footholds, or lack thereof.  Add body weight and a 40 lb pack, and it could spell disaster. I was alone. I should go back, I thought, and before the last word crossed my mind, I rebelled and said aloud, “Okay, swallow your pride, Linnie.”  There was nothing for it but to shimmy across on my bottom, and maybe stomach, heaven forbid!. I made sure my cup, knife, water bottle and whistle were secure.  I listened to be sure no one was coming up the trail to witness this humiliation.  A fleeting thought that it would be safer if I did wait so that others were around, flew through my mind and exited as quickly as it arrived. Sitting down, straddling the log, I am sure I looked like an ungainly rider on a bareback pony in the rain, but I shimmied and slid forward on the slick log. It was pretty easy actually, until I got to the small knot and about 3 inches of broken, albeit water-rounded branch sticking up at a 45º angle from the log. How was I going to negotiate that obstacle without toppling to the side into the river,  I wondered. I laid my upper body flat onto the log in front of me and inched forward until I got my upper body past the protrusion.  Slowly, slowly, I lifted one hip up a bit until I was over the branch, while wrapping my arms around the log. From there I gently propelled myself forward with the branch behind my groin.  I guess I could be glad I was a girl instead of a guy at this point. I’d take my blessings were I could. 

From there, it was easy enough to shimmy out to the other end, although the landing was more soggy than I’d expected and I almost launched myself backward into the river anyway.  I instinctively threw my body and backpack forward and was lucky enough to grab a granite rock sunken in the ground above the creek bank. I pulled myself up out of the boggy mess.  I was only a couple of hours into the hike and I’d already narrowly averted not one, but two, potentially life threatening events.  One per hour.  Not off to a good start.

I put up my chin and shook it off. From the stream, I followed the first set of switchbacks up the mountain, and at the first shady spot I grabbed a seat, took off my boots and socks and let them dry on the rock. Hiking with wet feet and socks was a blister nightmare waiting to happen.  You protect your feet at all costs on the trail.  Dad had drilled that into our heads over and over. I inspected my feet for any hot spots, brushed all the organic matter off and cleaned them with a bit of precious water, then covered them in strips of moleskin I’d cut to-size, before covering them with dry socks.  The extra time to do all of this was essential I knew. 

While sitting, my eye caught on some gorgeous pieces of sparkling rock that I momentarily envied, until my thoughts flicked back to another lesson Dad taught me without a word when I was 11, and on our way UP the same mountain, I’d asked to take a similar beautiful rock.  “Sure!” he’d said with a twinkle in his eye, “Take as many as you want!” Happily, I collected more and more sparkly treasures on the trail, but the longer we hiked and the higher we got, I’d found myself reassessing and getting rid of more and more at rest breaks until I was down to the one. Eventually that went too, the more tired I became. I remember how my dad had laughed. He’d never had to say another thing. Lesson learned.  Later in that trip, on the way out, I saw the sign, which had become a moot point by then: “Take only photos and leave only footprints.”

I knew that climbing the nearly 2,500 ft. in elevation would be considerable, but I really didn’t remember exactly how considerable it was, especially on that lengthy portion of very narrow trail on shale—little more than a mountain goat path really.  You had to stay alert.  When you’re that tired, it’s easy to slip, and slipping meant sliding down the steep slope to the river far below, slicing up your body all the way down on the sharp shale.  I remembered my sister’s backpack journey and was extra careful and anxious.

Arriving at Mildred Lake felt like an accomplishment, given that it was a 2,500 ft. elevation increase in 6 miles, bringing me to almost 10,000 ft., and I confess that I just camped there that first night instead of going on to Lake Dorothy as I’d planned.  It was only noon, so I took a quick swim in the icy waters to refresh myself.  Actually, it was more like our old home movies of the polar bear swim where us kids ran into the water yelling, quickly dunking ourselves, then yelling all the way back to shore, and jumping up and down as our frozen fingers tried to dress. The cold friggin’ took your breath away. Laying in the hot sun, I dried my feet, drank water, and had some lunch of hard salame, cheese, crackers and dried apples.  I surveyed the steep slopes diving straight down into the lake with no shore, the water a deep prussian blue and unfathomable depth. I set up my small backpack tent in a small clearing surrounded by pines for some wind protection. Dragging out my 10 year old REI down bag that I’d gotten for my 10^th birthday, I made sure my lodging was ready in case I’d have to dive in if a sudden rainstorm hit.  I remembered that it did that a lot in the Sierras when I was young.

Then I went fishing on the bank by the creek, which was the only place that was semi flat to stand on the shore.  Actually, I didn’t like eating fish, but it was a requirement for the childhood re-enactment I must’ve reasoned. I’d refreshed myself on fly fishing before I embarked on the trip, and had 5 flies with me in my little tin, hoping they’d be enough and not lost to the rocks under the surface or behind me when casting.  Miraculously, I caught a Brook Trout fairly quickly, and after gutting it, a task every bit as gross as when we’d had to do it as kids, I cooked it for dinner with some cornmeal batter I’d learned from watching Mom years back. It was then that I decided to forego battering later and just make a “Dorothy Fritter” (corn pancakes Mom made one year at Lake Dorothy when the fish were lean) to eat with it because I didn’t like fish skin and didn’t want to peel it off my cornmeal when cooked.  I walked a good quarter mile away and buried the fish skins and dinner scraps as deep as I could to avoid tracking bears.  Then it took me about 30 tries to toss the nylon cord over a tree branch and hoist up my food in a “bear hang”. After tying a rock to one end, I finally managed it.  I really didn’t want to think about how far bears could smell.  I just trusted my dad’s example. 

The next day, I was on the trail within the hour of oatmeal breakfast.  Serendipitously, the creek had several logs at the mouth, which made it much easier to cross.  If possible, the trek to Lake Dorothy was even harder than I remembered.  Or maybe I was just tired and had bitten off more that I could chew.  Maybe the stress of worrying about bears, mountain lions, blizzards, etc. had gotten the best of me during the night. Berating myself for my foolhardiness of doing this alone, I kept on, the trail turning more rugged and rocky.  At 10,000 ft. I still had some pine cover in place, and their fresh smell and bird song improved my mood. A pack-mule team with a guide leading riders up the slope left me feeling fairly self-righteous that I was doing it the “real mountain man way” and not like some sissy having donkeys do all the work and exercise. I laughed to myself, remembering my dad conveying much the same sentiment when we saw a similar group all those years ago.

Dorothy Lake was well worth the effort. The shaley slopes of the mountains, falling sharply into a caldron of pristine deep phalo blue, a little greener near the jagged rocky edges where the light could penetrate. I set up camp and decided that I wasn’t going to climb any higher, not like the day hikes Dad had taken us kids up to Lake Genevieve or up to Lake Constance at 14,000 ft.  I remember one year we’d contemplated hiking over to Bunny Lake, but that was some distance, and we’d only entertained his idea as kids because Mom’s name was Bunnie.  Reality won out over sentiment, and we’d all vetoed Dad’s idea that year.  Thank God, we’d thought, and surreptitiously had congratulated ourselves behind Dad’s back.  That memory made me laugh to myself.  I’d been doing a lot of that on this trip; talking and laughing to myself.  It made me understand a wee bit about why reclusive mountain men were often said to be a little crazy.  I thought of that old 1971 movie we’d seen at the drive-in, “The Man in the Wilderness,” with Richard Harris, its visuals and storyline often replaying itself in my dreams when we went on one of these backpacking trips when kids. It was the mountain wilderness version of Jaws, which too had scared a whole generation away from swimming in the ocean.

Lake Dorothy was a masterpiece in the Sierras, plentiful in beauty, peacefulness, drama and danger all by itself.  I let myself relax, scouting around the area, gathering pine nuts, as I had as a kid, fighting off the chipmunks trying to sneak into my pack, reading, sketching, playing solitaire with real cards (there were no digital “devices” in those years), and fishing for rainbow trout while standing on the sharp rocks at the lake edge.  I’d gradually improved my fly fishing, only losing one fly to the experience, my prettiest one as bad luck would have it.  Rainbow Trout gave more of a fight than the smaller Brook Trout, I’d learned, and I’d felt a sense of accomplishment at snagging my own dinner each night.  I happily made my “Dorothy Fritters” and ate them with my fish and sighed, pleased with myself.

I had one scare my third day at the lake.  It didn’t come in the form of bears, mountain lions or even a blizzard either, but in the form of man.  By the looks of him, he’d been out for far more days than I had, or he just hadn’t cared to wash in the icy stream or lakes.  I’d passed hikers on the way, of course, but they were usually a friendly couple or small group. I smelled him before I even heard or saw him. He was of indeterminate age, somewhere between 35 and 55, and had at least two weeks of scraggly beard, visibly dirty hair matted to his head in an oily way, and his hands were roughened as if he’d had more than a few run-ins with the cragged Sierra granite… or a bear, I thought.  “Man in the Wilderness.”  That single man had made me more than wary for some reason—just a feeling, especially as he didn’t seem eager to leave after our greeting.  He’d asked a lot of questions about me being alone and who might be looking for me should some ill fate befall me out here in the wilderness.  Stupid, stupid, stupid! I told myself. How could I have been so stupid as to not plan for danger coming from a human? How dumb I’d been to venture out as a woman alone, I berated myself.  There was no one to stop him from harming me, and no one to ever know about it either. 

Survival thoughts kicked in, and I thought to the location of my knife, a little Swiss Army knife hanging from a carabiner on my backpack. Who was I kidding? That wasn’t a weapon!  It would probably only serve to make him mad, batting it away like a gnat, or he’d just stand back and laugh at me and my ridiculously puny toy weapon. I should have asked my dad to borrow his hunting knife, but I hadn’t told my dad about this trip, had I?  Better still, I should have had a gun for protection out here alone.  Even I, the ultimate pacifist and animal lover/gun hater could admit that. Casually, I took seconds here and there to spot the location of good rocks and heavy branches I could use, and calculated the distance and how much time it would take me to get to them if I had to. I was agile and able to roll, being a gymnast, and that would take him off guard.  I was very strong, much stronger than most men had ever given me credit for. I could use that to my advantage.  For a split second I amused myself with the knowledge that I could always weightlift and leg press at least 80 more pounds than my boyfriends, and Dad took great pleasure in needling them when I brought one home to meet the family. Quickly returning to the danger at hand,  I reasoned that if he had a knife, I had a chance, but if he had a gun, I was done for. 

I saw a smile slowly crack through his leathered face, and he said, “I can almost see every thought running through your mind. Calm yourself. I’m not here to hurt you, lady.  I just need a human to talk to every now and again, and a pretty young face is just a bonus.”  Only half hearing, I tensed, terrified now, when he took out a big knife, sheathed in a soiled leather scabbard.  He laid it on the rock next to me, handle facing me, in a goodwill gesture to validate his words I finally surmised.  I relaxed slightly, but remained on guard.  After another hour of him sharing stories of his adventures in the wilderness, along with a plethora of sage advice on wilderness survival, and then listening to my family backpacking stories, he said that the day was awastin' and he should push on.  He thanked me for the company, the great stories and the chance to pass along his learning, before he turned to go.  I called to him, and held out his he-man-mountain-knife, handle first.  He paused, smiled, took it with a head shake.  Why? I don’t know; maybe because I’d just proven that I hadn’t learned to protect myself by keeping the knife?  I don’t know, but his last words were to admonish me to go buy myself a big hunting knife… or a “damn gun,” if I was ever compelled to do this kind of hairbrained thing again. After a last rueful smile and a nod, he left.   I watched him make his way around the perimeter of the lake before heading up through the even steeper canyon, so to assure myself he’d really gone.  Needless to say, my sleep was fitful that night, wrestling with emotional exhaustion born of fear.

            By this point, I’d been out five days, and still smarting from finally acknowledging the foolhardiness of me backpacking in the unforgiving Sierras by myself without protection. Swallowing crow, I decided to pack up and make my way back to Lake Convict.  Sparing a tiny regret that I didn’t get to make it to Lake Genevieve, I figured I had made my point that I was brave and able to make such a trip on my own. Okay, so maybe not too much crow. I wasn’t stupid enough not to dismiss the fact that I’d had a good amount of divine protection despite myself, but I’d only admit that to myself for the time being.  I hiked all the way out that day.  Walking out always seemed to go faster, both because in the mountains, it’s usually downhill, and the knowledge that the end is in sight tends to propel one along.  Still, I couldn’t help singing 99 bottles of beer on the wall through the slower shale portion, in honor of my sisters!

Once down, I set up camp again at Convict Lake and waited for my friends to show up. Pulling off my boots, I surveyed the damage. By then, they were covered in a second skin of mole, as I joked to myself, so thoroughly covered in little strips of worn and travel-greyed moleskin, tattered at the edges, over the course of 20 odd miles of trail.  I removed the large  bandaid and piece of moleskin from my knee, where I’d fallen on the granite boulder I’d climbed to look at the lake, and my shins where I’d slid a bit on the shale on my way down the mountain. I then peeled the larger square of moleskin I’d affixed to my palms for protection after abraiding them on the granite boulders that I had often found myself grabbing for stability when I stumbled.  As kids, when we had given each other camping names, Dad renamed “Farting Dog,” Mom-“Wounded Warrier” and me “Meat patties” on account of my short, wide feet.  Now I looked more like a “Wounded Meat Patty Warrior”  — all battle scars or trophies, I thought proudly.

When I could even think about this trip again without overwhelming shame, it was ten years later, with the benefit of a little more life wisdom under my belt.  A lot of the navigation mistakes I could chalk up to the naïve inexperience of not ever before having actually planned a route and used a topographical map on my own.  It was like getting directions from someone who had ridden in a car to a location vs. getting them from the person who had actually planned and personally driven the car.

And I bought myself a big hunting knife.

____________________

Please leave a comment! I would love it if you would scroll to the bottom to leave a little comment at the end of each blog post read to let me know how you engaged with the topic and/or artwork. (below the "Recent Posts" section) and/or click the heart button if you liked the post. Thank you!!!

Note: All artwork, stories and observations posted within should be credited to the author, Linnie Aikens Lindsay (unless cited in the post). Permission is required for any use of my words or artwork. Taken from my work, "My Life As Wallpaper Art".