Trails, Lakes, and the Spaces Between
Somewhere in my house there’s a drawer that tells the truth about how I plan.
It’s not sleek. It’s not efficient. It doesn’t look like a “system.” It’s a collection of folded paper maps—creased at the same corners, soft around the edges, and marked by years of being opened on truck tailgates, cabin tables, and the ground beside a sleeping bag. A lot of those maps have been replaced by apps on a phone, but I still reach for paper first.
Part of it is practical. Part of it is just who I am. The Sierra became real to me through paper maps long before it became a pin on a screen.
And now the best part of it is that my oldest—who hikes with me—has started reaching for them too.
There’s something old-fashioned and right about sitting in the wilderness with a map open, letting the wind tug at the corners while you stare at the lines and names and empty spaces. Sometimes we’re at camp. Sometimes we’re taking a break on a pass. Sometimes we’re just sitting on a rock with snacks and time. We don’t always need to be moving. We’re looking at what’s around us, what’s beyond us, what’s possible. We’re talking about basins we’ve never seen, routes we didn’t take, and little blue shapes on the map that might be lakes—or might just be the suggestion of one.
That’s planning, too. Not the stressful kind. The kind that feels like the beginning of an adventure.
When I’m building a Sierra year, it often starts the same way. I pick a region—because if you don’t, the Sierra will overwhelm you. There are too many trailheads, too many lakes, too many once-in-a-lifetime routes to chase all at once. Choosing a region isn’t limiting. It’s committing. It’s saying, This summer I want to understand this corner of the range a little better.
Then the map comes out and I do what I always do: I look for water first.
A river line that runs through a valley. A chain of lakes tucked into granite bowls. A drainage that seems to gather the whole country and funnel it somewhere deeper. I love peaks, but it’s water that pulls me into the Sierra. Water is where the life is—where the quiet is, where the camp feels right, where the days slow down enough to notice what the mountains are actually doing.
Paper maps have a way of teaching you the Sierra in a way apps don’t. On paper, you can’t help but see the whole basin. You can see the walls of it, the ridges that shape it, the saddles that might connect it to another valley. You start to understand the difference between a trail that follows a river and a trail that climbs out of a drainage and commits to a higher world. You see how a loop might work before you ever check mileage. You start thinking like the landscape, not like a route description.
That’s the shift I wish more people would make—not because it’s purer, but because it’s better.
Trails are important. They’re how most of us move through the Sierra. But the real Sierra experience happens in the spaces between them—the basin you can’t see from the trail, the ridge that sits just above camp, the lake that doesn’t make the list because it’s another mile past the popular turnaround point.
I don’t chase “best hikes” the way I used to. Now I chase basins.
And basins aren’t just geography—they’re personality.
Last summer, during our quest for 100 miles, my buddy Tom and I spent a night camped in Cold Creek Canyon. It’s not a place that shows up on 98% of Yosemite visitors’ must-see lists. There’s no famous viewpoint. No parade of hikers. Just a quiet canyon that feels like it’s holding its breath.
That evening we set up camp and decided to climb a small granite ridge behind camp for sunset. It wasn’t a big summit—just a short, steep little push to get above the trees. And when we crested the ridge, what opened up behind it felt like pure, unexplored adventure: hidden folds of valley shaped by old ice and water, little corridors and benches you’d never notice from a trail, and the kind of terrain that makes you realize how much Sierra country exists beyond what most people ever see.
Two days later we’d be off-trail crossing a ridgeline that doesn’t exist on any trail map, walking through meadows with no names, with water gurgling out of the ground from fresh natural springs like the Sierra was quietly making its own rules. That night on the rock above camp, it was fun to open the map and start tracing how those valleys connected—how water and glaciers carved pathways you can’t see from below, how one drainage might spill into the next, how a “blank space” on paper isn’t empty at all.
And then the coyotes started calling—one voice, then another, then a whole hunting party echoing down the canyon. That’s the kind of moment that sticks. The kind of wilderness experience that has nothing to do with checking boxes and everything to do with learning a place.
Those are the things I don’t feel like I find on digital maps alone. Not because the apps aren’t good—but because paper invites a different kind of attention. It makes you slow down enough to see what’s possible.
And then I go digital—not to replace paper, but to confirm what the map is already telling me.
AllTrails is the place I go when I want to hear what happened out there recently. I’m looking for the simple truth of the season: was the road open, was the trail chewed up, was the creek crossing sketchy, was the parking a mess. I’ll scroll photos, not because I’m trying to copy someone else’s trip, but because the Sierra changes every year—and pictures often tell you what the words won’t.
But if I’m trying to see the country—really see it—onX Backcountry is where I spend time. The terrain visualization helps me understand how a basin connects, where a ridge rolls, where a slope might be too steep to mess with late in the day, and how those “blank spaces” on the map actually lay out in real life.
And when the plan includes off-trail miles, Gaia becomes the bridge between dreaming and moving.
In September, when we mapped out our Yosemite off-trail stretch from Nelson Lake over toward Merced Lake—cutting past Matthes Lake and dropping into the creek basin below Echo Lake on the way toward Merced—we did a lot of that work in advance. We studied paper first, then used digital layers to visualize terrain, confirm angles, and download a prospective line to carry with us.
That track wasn’t the plan. The Sierra always has the final vote. But having a line downloaded and ready was a huge advantage when we were walking—especially in the moments you don’t have time to stop, unfold a map, and linger. In those stretches, quick checks on a GPS line helped us stay efficient and calm, then when we hit a natural pause—water, shade, a break in the climb—we could pull out paper again and actually understand where we were.
Paper starts the conversation. Digital helps me check my assumptions. And together, they let me move through the Sierra with both confidence and curiosity.
Somewhere in that process, a trip begins to form.
Not just a destination. A route with a rhythm. A plan that has more than one option. A summer that starts organizing itself instead of staying a pile of ideas.
And then comes the part that makes the dream real: trailheads and permits.
This is where the Sierra asks you to be an adult about it. Not everything is spontaneous anymore. Not everything can be a last-minute roll of the dice. If you want certain parts of the range in peak season—especially with limited vacation windows—you have to do the work early. You have to read the rules. You have to understand your entry points. You have to be willing to adjust.
That’s why I never go into permit season with a single plan.
I go in with three.
Sometimes that means three different trailheads that lead to the same kind of country. Sometimes it means three possible start dates for the same route. Either way, it keeps me moving. It keeps me from getting emotionally pinned to one idea and watching the season slip by while I wait for the perfect version of it.
And it keeps summer from turning into that familiar feeling so many people know too well—standing at a trailhead in July wondering why it feels like you’re already behind.
I still love seeing a wild lake photo on Instagram. I still love discovering a basin I didn’t know existed because someone posted a sunrise shot from the shoreline.
But I treat that as a spark, not a strategy.
Instagram can show you something beautiful. A paper map can show you where it lives, what surrounds it, and what kind of trip it actually requires. The Sierra doesn’t need you to chase a pin. It needs you to slow down enough to understand the country you’re stepping into.
And if you ever want proof that planning can be part of the adventure, do what my son and I do sometimes: sit down in the wilderness with a paper map, stare at the lines and names, and talk about what’s out there.
Not because you’re trying to conquer it.
Because you’re trying to keep coming back.
