Mammoth Lakes: Hungry, Cold, and Wide Awake
Where the Fire Sputters, the Stars Burn, and the Mountains Don’t Care
Day One — Sabrina Lake and Cheap Firewood
We rolled out of Glenn’s driveway around 7 a.m., two guys with packs heavier than our sense of preparation. The drive took us through Bishop, where we did the only respectable thing you can do there: stop at Schatz Bakery. A sandwich, a danish, and the unspoken truth — this would be the last real food before backpacking misery began.
By the time we hit Sabrina Lake, the air smelled like pine and thin promises. We found a campsite tucked into the trees, then wandered down to the lake where a small restaurant doubled as a tackle shop and bar. A couple of beers later, we toasted the “Champagne of the Rockies” — cheap, but it sealed the deal: the trek was officially underway.
Dinner was chili and cornbread — the kind of meal that tastes five times better when you know it’s the last good one for a while. The fire sputtered like it had a grudge against us, but we sat anyway, waiting for the stars to punch holes in the black sky. They did. And then the cold came down hard. My sleeping bag held, but I tossed and turned until morning coffee and a leftover danish saved me.
Day Two — The March to Hungry Packer
Eight miles. Twenty-five hundred feet up. That’s the stat sheet. But it doesn’t tell you how the mountain chews at your lungs until your heart pounds so loud you hear it in your neck.
We passed Blue Lake (Top Right) — a teaser of what was coming — then stopped at Dingleberry Lake (yes, it’s really called that) for lunch: chili mac and cheese that tasted like victory. The scene was ours alone until a group of day hikers drifted in. We packed up and pushed on.
False summits are the devil’s joke: you crest one, thinking you’re close, and then the mountain laughs and throws another incline in your face. Garmin said 200 feet left. Garmin lied. Dip down. Climb up. Repeat until your mind breaks or your feet drag you forward out of sheer stubbornness.
We passed Topsy Turvy Lake, following a stream that melted the pain for just a moment. Then finally, Hungry Packer revealed itself. Worth every heartbeat. Picture Peak loomed above, glaciers spilling into water so clear it looked unreal. Glenn and I crossed a thin land bridge to an island clearing — our home for the next few days.
Boots off, whiskey in hand, I dipped my feet in the lake. The water stabbed like needles — maybe 38 degrees, maybe colder. Painful, but alive. Glenn felt the altitude hit him hard and retreated to the tent for a nap. At 11,000 feet, the mountain doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It just takes. While he slept, I filtered water and scribbled the first notes of this trip.
Day Three — Lakes on Both Sides of Hungry Packer
From camp we pushed to Midnight Lake, then over to Moonlight. Each climb was brutal — steep and relentless — but the payoff was surreal: glass-clear water, ridgelines circling like ancient walls, and silence so heavy it pressed against your chest.
We hauled our chairs onto a massive boulder, ate snacks, and stared into that granite bowl. The water was so pure it hardly needed filtering. Hard to believe something so alive could be so empty of people.
Moonlight was the real gem — electric blue, windswept, beautiful. One lone camper had set up a luxury spread at the far end. We passed by, amused, and claimed our own stretch of shoreline. From there we could have pushed toward Echo Lake, but bouldering across talus fields didn’t feel worth the gamble. Instead, we sat. Watched. Let the mountain strip us of everything but presence.
On the way back, we bushwhacked over a ridge — a near-vertical grind that gave us panoramic views of camp and beyond. Back on our little island, we carried chairs to the peninsula and sat by the water. I took my shoes off, soaking my feet in ice-cold pain. Glenn stripped down to his chinos and egged me on to dive in. I hesitated — this water was brutal — but I followed anyway. Pins and needles hit from every side, and I scrambled out faster than I’d gone in. A harsh, perfect reminder of how alive we were.
We sat in the sun, letting warmth dry us back up. Dinner came and went. Then quilts on cold rock, cameras in hand, waiting for the Milky Way to burn across the sky. Warmer than the night before, more comfortable somehow. Picture Peak stood dark against a universe that refused to hide. For a moment, sleep felt optional.
Day Four — Downhill Into Reality
Morning brought the smell of storm — cold wind and that ski-resort scent of coming snow. Alex had been pinging me weather updates by satellite comm, and the verdict was clear: time to get out, with rain forecast by noon.
We broke camp and headed down, passing fresh groups on their way up. We warned them about the storm, but they didn’t care — young adults, elders, all chasing the same thing we were. Respect.
By the time we hit the car, the mountain was already closing its doors.
What stays with me isn’t just the views or the photos. It’s the rhythm of breath against thin air, the sting of glacier-fed water on bare feet (and backside), the way a sputtering fire can still feel like enough. And how silence at 11,500 feet is louder than any city will ever be.
Trips like this remind me: the world isn’t here to entertain us. It’s here to test us. And if we’re lucky, it gives us just enough beauty to keep us coming back for more.
Garmin Links:
Day 1 - Blue, Dingleberry, Topsy Turvy, and Hungry Packer Lakes
The way you wrote it transported me—halfway through I actually caught myself breathing in the cool mountain air, smelling it as if I were standing right there.