Lonely Grave in the Sierra:
Visiting the Grave Site

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I am intentionally being vague about the exact location of the grave. If you are a genuine hiker or climber, and familiar with the area, you will easily recognize geographical features mentioned in the text. For others, who might see the grave site as a tourist attraction, and plan to come solely for that reason: Please do not bother, you will never find it.

Four weeks later, on Tuesday, August 24, I was in the remote high valley again, on my way to the back side of Mt. Ritter, in search of an easier route to its summit. At 9 a.m., I found the Rettenbachers' grave.

But before we get to that part, let me first continue with the story right where we left it on the previous page:

When I got back to Palo Alto from my first trip, I immediately sent an email to Alan Ritter asking him if he knew anything more about the accident that had killed the two climbers whose grave he had photographed. A Web search retrieved several email address for Alan, and I used all, but no answer came back. Perhaps those addresses were no longer active? I also tried to contact other members of his climbing party, but with no success.

A Google search for "Rettenbacher" didn't yield anything interesting, and the "Naturfreunde" search showed that such an organization no longer existed in San Francisco. The only Bay Area branches were in Oakland and Mill Valley, their main business, the search revealed, was organizing the Octoberfest beer festivities. No phone numbers or email addresses were listed. I have learned much more about Die Naturfreunde since then, and my early impression was quite wrong, but this will be covered on other pages.

Since Alan's description talks about two German climbers, I also sent a note to the German Consulate in San Francisco to see if they knew anything. They didn't, but suggested that I try German Alpenverein (DAV) Museum in Munich. Unfortunately, there was no reply from the Museum or from any of several DAV offices that I also contacted via email.

Several days later, my brother, who lives in Europe, told me that the name "Rettenbacher" sounds more Austrian than German to him, and I fired notes to the central office and to several local offices of Austrian Alpenverein, asking them if they had any knowledge of the Rettenbacher accident. Well, Alpenverein people are clearly better in climbing than in answering email, and I didn't get a single answer. The Austrian Embassy in Washington didn't have knowledge of any Austrians being buried in the Sierra.

The Seven Deadly Sins of Book Care Sin Number Six: Coveting and Stealing Library Material (From a poster in Green Library, Stanford University, recorded in October 2004)

I also visited Stanford's collection of hiking/climbing books. One particular book that I wanted to check was by William Alsup about Walter Starr, who was killed in a climbing accident in the same area one year earlier, in 1933. I was hoping to find the names of the people who had been involved in the search, because those same people would have likely been involved in the Rettenbacher case. Stanford's single copy of Alsup's book unfortunately was not on the shelf, and it was not borrowed either. (Several days after my inquiry, the book was declared lost/stolen. The significance of this stolen book will become clear later). Fortunately, Stanford Library has volumes and volumes of Sierra Club Bulletins, and I found the information that I needed about the Starr search in the 1933 volume. I also checked the 1934 volume, but there was nothing about the Rettenbachers. Unlike Starr, they obviously had not been Sierra Club members.

Finally, I talked to the reference librarians at Palo Alto Library, showed them Alan's picture of the grave and the plaque, and asked them for advice on how to proceed. They recommended a call to Mammoth Lakes Library, and a visit to History Center of San Francisco Library. Palo Alto Library users also have access to searchable databases of all older issues of the Los Angeles Times and the New York Times, and I searched for "Rettenbacher", "Banner", "Sierra accident", and similar phrases in both newspapers, but found nothing in the July 1934 issues. I added a visit to Mammoth Lakes Library to my list of things to do when I got to that part of the Sierra again. Surely, they would know something, or at least have the older Mammoth Lakes newspapers available. Perhaps the accident was not good enough a story for big east and west coast papers, but a local paper couldn't have missed such a tragic event.

July went by, and August arrived. The weather in the mountains in the mid part of August was terrible. An active system near the Mexican west coast was pumping unstable moist air along the Sierra backbone, causing strong thunderstorms all the way to Tahoe, day after day. The situation was particularly bad in the Southern Sierra, and in nearby Death Valley the torrential rains forced the park to close for a time because of heavy damage to the roads.

The forecast finally got better, and on August 22, I left for the Eastern Sierra. This time I was on a solo trip, because Dom had other obligations. It was Sunday, and I feared there would be no more place in the campgrounds near Tioga Road by the time I arrived in the late afternoon. However, the campgrounds were empty. There was still a lot of moisture in the air, but it didn't rain. I made a quick hike to North Dome, then retired in the Porcupine Flat campground. I didn't reserve the Rush Creek hiking permit in advance this time because of the bad weather in earlier weeks. Since I wanted to be the first in line for the permits, I rushed from Yosemite to Lee Vining early next morning. It turned out that I was the only person interested in this trailhead on that day. I was carrying much more stuff this time, including a reliable old Minolta loaded with high-speed film. After weeks of training, I was in good shape and made it to the Sierra Crest faster than a month earlier. The view from the Crest was ominous. Mt. Ritter was completely engulfed by dark clouds, and only the lower reaches of Banner Peak occasionally emerged and became visible. Worse, the wind was getting stronger as the day was progressing, and it was reaching really uncomfortable levels at the Crest. It wouldn't be good to be stranded on Banner Peak or Mt. Ritter in such bad weather. If I only knew on which exact day the Rettenbacher accident had happened, I could easily check old weather forecasts and see if the pair had perhaps gotten caught by a storm. But the plaque on the grave site only says July 1934, without specifying a day.

I saw no one around the often crowded Thousand Island Lake. Above the west shore, there was a small wind-shielded depression rimmed by a few trees on one side, and I set my tent there. Ranger Deb, who sometimes stays in this area over the summer, must have opted for a less windy place somewhere at the lower elevation, and I didn't see her or any other person in the next two days. There were still several hours of daylight left, and, in spite of the wind, I decided to explore the lower part of the remote valley in which the grave was supposed to be. The valley narrows in its upper reaches, but here it was wide. Its lush meadows were criss-crossed by small creeks and well-used game trails. No grave site, however.

When it darkened, I huddled up in my tent. It was a night of howling winds in what felt like the loneliest place in the world. After midnight, the wind shifted from southerly to northerly direction, but remained equally strong. A trough must have been passing over the Sierra. Towards dawn the wind somewhat subsided and I got a few hours of sleep. The morning was beautiful. The wind had blown away all of the moisture, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Banner Peak was towering above my tent, grand and inviting, but I was not heading there. Hidden behind Banner Peak was Mt. Ritter, my goal for that day.

It didn't take long to pack my daily provisions, ice axe, and the camera, and I was once again on my way to the remote valley. I stayed on the far edge, above the main stream. At about 9 a.m., I suddenly saw the plaque, shining in the morning sun. On a small grassy meadow, just a few feet from a perennial spring, there was the grave site. For few minutes, I stood quietly by the grave, profoundly moved.

This was not just a pile of stones put there to mark the spot of an old accident. It was definitely a true burial place. Weathered rocks were carefully positioned around the grave's perimeters. A larger rock served as a headstone, and carried the plaque. The top part of the plaque was attached by two long bolts, and the bottom part was cemented directly onto the rock. The grave was facing east, perhaps towards the victims' homeland. It was about two and a half feet wide, and some six feet long. I wouldn't be surprised if an improvised wooden cross had been at the grave at one time, but it might have been removed when the plaque was placed, or it simply got worn and washed away by the wind, rain, and snow. The grave site is above the tree line, at about 10,500 feet (3,200 meters). It is some twelve miles from the nearest trailhead, and very few walkers could reach it in a day hike. Snow probably covers it for the larger part of year.

View northwest from the summit of Mt. Ritter. Several Ritter Lakes could be seen deep below. (Photo by Morgan Brown, reproduced with permission).

I said a prayer, took few photos, then continued up the valley. Before midday, I was on the western side of Mt. Ritter, approaching the largest of several Ritter Lakes (3311 on topo maps). Mt. Ritter's summit was visible from the west side of the lake. I took good pictures (or so I thought) of the monumental west wall of the mountain, which drops two thousand vertical feet from the summit into the lake. I recalled tragic events from 1971, when a party of climbers had reached the Ritter/Banner col from the other side of the mountain, then continued up the north face of Mt. Ritter. They were caught by a severe spring storm on the northwest ridge, and four of them lost their lives somewhere on this wall after becoming disoriented and descending in the wrong direction (see Appendix A).

No stormy weather today. The sky was clear, and a stream cascaded quietly down from a high terrace into the south end of the big lake. Following this creek up, you eventually get to the highest and the most remote of the Ritter lakes (3377 on topo maps). On its east shore you will find some snow even in a late summer. The vertical wall is now to your left, and a wide steep ravine opens in front of you. The ravine leads to the southern ridge just below Mt. Ritter's summit. I liked what I saw: This was steeper than the Banner Peak face from the Banner/Ritter saddle, but as far as I could tell, still a class-2 approach. In the first part of the twentieth century, according to Norman Clyde, this was a frequently followed route for climbing Mt. Ritter. Today, when hiking is often just a weekend activity, people no longer have time to get all the way to Ritter Lakes, which are two days from the nearest road. Instead they almost always opt for an approach via Ediza Lake on the east side of the mountain. I certainly had the impression that nobody had been at the Upper Ritter Lake in the past months, or even longer. There were no human or animal tracks on the remaining snow fields, and I could almost touch little birds chirping around and totally unconcerned by my presence. I thought of the Rettenbachers again. Perhaps they had wandered through this area and even reached Mt. Ritter from here, before their fatal climb to Banner Peak. Mt. Ritter's old summit register, if still preserved somewhere, could tell us.

I climbed a few hundred feet up the ravine, until a full view of a mountain chain to the west opened. Those were the majestic peaks at the border of Yosemite National Park. I paused here and checked the map. There was still a long way to climb, and perhaps there wouldn't be enough time to make a safe return during daylight hours. I took several pictures of the upper bowl and the chute that leads to the final ridge, then hesitantly turned back. I will go there again one day, and make it to the top!

I took a different route back, passing by another of the Ritter Lakes and climbing some exposed rocks above it to reach Lake Catherine. There, I decided to make a full loop around the lake. In the morning I had taken its western shore, and now I was heading east. From the top of a cliff that raises from the lake I could see the glacier that Dom and I had climbed on our way to Banner/Ritter col last time. Or better, I saw what remained of the glacier. It was no longer reaching the lake, nor the saddle. It was dark colored, covered by debris and dirt, and defaced by crevasses. Detached from the main body, some remnants of the glacier were still hugging the cliff that I was crossing. I carefully descended towards the snow line, then jumped from the cliff to something that looked like a safe snowy landing surface. I got a jolt that I will never forget. What looked like manageable snow was actually rock solid ice. By sheer luck, I didn't tumble down the steep, thirty foot long icy slope. Such a fall could have resulted in a serious injury. It was almost impossible to cut steps with the axe in this ice, and I didn't have crampons. I couldn't climb back to the cliff either. My only way out was through an opening between the ice and the face of the cliff. This frightening narrow moat, up to eight feet deep, led eventually to a point where the ice slope was much shorter. With the help of the ice axe I finally reached the firm ground. During this ordeal, a thought crossed my mind that the Rettenbachers could have somehow gotten trapped in schrund or crevasses as a result of an accident, and not been found for weeks or months. Is July 1934 on their grave reflecting the date when they died, or the date when they were found?

On the way back to the tent, I saw the grave site once again. Now that I knew where to look, it was easy to spot it even from a considerable distance. Next morning I packed out, briefly stopped at Sierra Crest to have another view of the Ritter Range, and reached my car at 2 p.m. It was good to talk to people again after two days (felt much longer!) of absolute solitude. The Public Library in Mammoth Lakes was open till 6 p.m. on Wednesdays, and there was still enough time to get there. I was eager to check the stack of old Mammoth Lakes newspapers.

NEXT: Nothing but dead ends

If you have any reliable knowledge about the accident or the Rettenbachers, please drop me a line at

indicates that more information is available in the footnotes section.