I twist up and zip out of the bag with a noisy commotion. The tent is cold; the walls are slimy with condensation. Tomorrow I should leave a bigger gap in the fly. I crawl onto frosty ground. The night still. The moon is two extended-hand-widths past the smear of the Milky Way. No need for the flashlight.
I wander into the trees to do my business. There's something crunching along out there. A deer? Yes, must be a deer. A deep chill sinks in. I hurry back in the tent and dive as deep as I can into my bag. It's warm and reassuring, but there's no getting back to sleep. First day jitters. Might as well get dressed and move around.
My shirt and socks are damp. I pull on all my layers mindful of those Minnesota toughs would call this beach weather. Not me. My bones would probably shake right out of my skin. I crawl back out in the night, no one stirs. I could make coffee, but the noise would wake someone. I decide to warm up with a walk to North Lake.
The road cuts a silvery tunnel through the shadows. Each step creates a little light show with a moon-lit puff of dust. A few yards off, the creek roars along without rest. I fall into a rhythm paced by the seesaw of the crickets and frogs. At the lake, I scramble up a rock, pick out the constellations and wait for the reflection of the first glimmers in the east. A Phoebe starts to peep. An owl flaps low overhead. The rim of sky starts to glow. Time to backtrack to camp. It will be a grand day.
Duane sips his hot chocolate. He's alert and in good spirits. I'm hungry. I fill my pot with 2 cups: one for oatmeal, one for coffee. I boil only what I need. Fuel is heavy. Conservation important. I only have a half-pound of alcohol — enough to boil sixteen cups. But my hand shakes and I send a cup's worth of alcohol into the dirt. The ignition singes the hair off my hands. Duane says nothing about my little inferno. He doesn't need to. Reminder: bad things happen quickly.
The day warms quickly. We break camp, fill our water containers and shoulder our packs. Duane takes the lead. Our first ascent passes thru the woods above North Fork Creek. The path is knotted with roots and muddy patches. We cross the creek twice on log bridges. I'm plenty glad we don't have to wade; the stream is over-the-knee and icy cold. No doubt a Minnesotan would find it refreshing.
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| Photo by Duane Bindschadler |
We reach the top of the cascade. A woman stands above us on a rock against the sky. She is sunburned; her legs are muscular; her ponytail is pulled back through her baseball cap; her clothes are clean. She stares out to the east. A cell phone is squashed to her ear. She is making arrangements of some sort. We pass by without acknowledgement.
We climb another long switch back. A middle-aged guy comes careening down. He has a blank, disoriented look. He doesn't look up. He forces us off the trail without so much as a howdy-do. Duane swears after him, but I say nothing. He looked strange, like he'd seen a ghost.
We pass along the north shore of Loch Leven. A cluster of scouts are camped across the way. A few are fishing. One is splashing about in the cold water.
The trail turns up again and stays high. The canyon narrows. We pass several small lakes before coming to the edge of Piute Lake. A massive granite wall towers a thousand feet straight up from the water. The gibbous moon is balanced just above the pinnacle. A cold breeze ripples the surface. There's a clatter of sticks behind us. The woman on the cell phone zooms along without apparent effort and offers a cheery thanks as she blows past never to be seen again. Duane points to a rock up ahead. "Lets stop there and get a snack."
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| Puite lake Photo by Duane Bindschadler |
"Nice view," says Duane.
As I chew, memories pop in my head: People from the lost past. My early days with Lilalee. All that might have been or wasn't done. The recurring question, "what matters anyway?" and the indifferent or detached melancholy that follows. It's the time scale of this place: 80-million-year-old rock made 10's of miles beneath the surface, then pushed up to this place a mere 10 million years ago and destined to be reduced to sand in just a 100-million more. It reassures somehow. Ageing is not so lonely up here. A warm gust lifts me back to the moment and its sweet joy. This place is a glory. A temple on a spinning planet. Here we are in a silent comradeship chewing trail mix.
A solo hiker spots us on our rock. "Hey! Nice packs." He's forty-something; very sunburned; wearing cutoffs, a now-sleeveless Stanford T shirt that reveals an elaborate tattoo on each bicep and a beanie with strings down the earflaps over a full head of tousled hair that's more grey than blond. "Where you going?" he asks. His smile shows plenty of teeth and deep creases around his eyes.
"Upper Desolation Lake," says Duane.
"Beautiful" he says.
He drops his pack next to ours and grabs a place on our rock. "Whew! Don't mind do you? Just walked up from the junction. Had to stealth camp at the creek. Fucking Rangers. You know how it is. Any hoot, I was hoping to hitch, but had to leg it up the road. Bummer."
I don't know much, but I know that's probably an extra 1,200 feet up and his pack looks heavy.
"What about you guys?"
"We stayed at the campground." I say.
"I love that campground. People will usually just let you crash in their site. Where you from?"
"Los Angeles," we say.
"I live in Mammoth. Rode my bike down. I ride everywhere. Summer winter. Don't matter. This nice couple gave me a ride up from Bishop." He pats his pack. "Nothing like a backpack; even a surly dude like me can get a hitch." He digs into a side pocket and takes out a Cliff Bar. "Want one?"
"You rode from Bishop?" I ask trying to conceal any amazement.
"Yea. Do it all the time." He finishes his Cliff Bar in four bites and sucks his fingers. "Love these things."
"Hike here often?" asks Duane.
"Me? Yea. I've hiked all the passes. Nothing like my friend, Tal, though. He lent me this pack. Now Tal's the hiker."
"How so?"
"That dude can walk over Bishop Pass, come around to Darwin Bench, climb over Lamarack Col and meet friends for dinner at Upper Lamarack Lake in the same day."
"That's quite a hike," says Duane.
"No shit Sherlock!" He dusts his hands on his cutoffs and slings on his pack. "God, I love this pack. I think he should give it to me. Ha!" He grabs his sticks. "Time to fly men, I'm meeting a friend at MTR for dinner." He raises his eyebrows twice to signal his meaning. We shake hands and he heads up toward the pass.
"I guess we should also get going," says Duane.
"Do you believe all that?" I ask.
"Heck if I know," he replies.
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| Photo by Duane Bindschadler |
We near the summit. We step over a well-furrowed snow field and reach the crest. It's windy. There are top-of-the-earth views to the east and west. I am feeling good. My pack feels like part of me. My legs are strong. I notice with smug satisfaction that Duane was sucking wind on the last switchback. All that conditioning misery is paying off. All those months of being thwarted by a wonky leg. It's all behind me now.
We descend rock-hewn, stair-stepped switchbacks towards Summit Lake. The lake is surrounded by a large green meadow. There are three young guys running like crazy across the meadow in our direction. They are cursing and waving their arms wildly in the air. We hurry in their direction.
Duane calls out, "You guys OK?"
The first guy yells back, "Mosquitos! Fucking mosquitos!" We meet on the trail. They bend over panting. Then we are all in a swarm of mosquitos. A thousand mosquitos. We all start waving our arms and dodging about.
"It's bad down there," says the second guy.
"Where you going?" asks the first guy?
"Desolation Lake," I say.
"Do us a favor? We are supposed to wait for our friend at Summit Lake. We're not sticking around. Will you tell him we split?"
I assume the worst. "Something wrong?"
"No, nothing's wrong," rebuts the third guy with a dismaying swing at 50 mosquitos. "He's just fishing."
The first guys continues, "He shouldn't be too far behind. Will you tell him to meet us at the campground?"
"We'll tell him," says Duane.
"Let's get out of here," urges the second guy and he starts up the trail.
Duane yells after him. "How will we know him?"
The first guy yells back. "He has a fishing pole."
Duane and I trade looks. "That helps," I say.
We walk briskly downslope leading a herd of mosquitos. I am bothered. "That's screwed up. Hiking partners should stick together. It's not safe."
"Maybe," answers Duane. "Depends."
"What if something happens?" I reply.
"Things do," he says with a swat at his neck. "But it's the mountains. Up here you make our own decisions."
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| Lower Desolation Lake. Evolution Group in the background Photo by Duane Bindschadler |
The track is sketchy in places. We make a few wrong turns, but soon we are looking down on Lower Desolation Lake. If I ever wondered why I want to hike in the Sierras this view of the Evolution Range erases any doubt.
The afternoon wind picks up as we climb the 300 foot to the last ridge. Upper Desolation Lake spreads out below us: a big gouge left by a glacier, beneath snow-patched, treeless slopes, filled with transparent icy water. Tonight's destination. We hike to the west end of the lake and find a sheltered spot. It's not large — just enough room for our two tents—but mostly out of the wind. We set up camp.
Duane decides to take a nap in the shade of his tarp. I decide to head over to a sunny rock with a copy of "Slaughterhouse 5" which I pulled off my bookshelf at the last minute because it weighed less than 4 ounces. But I can't concentrate. Perhaps it's the theme that seems so out of place. Perhaps I'm sleepy from the altitude and lack of sleep. The wind picks up. The blue afternoon shadows consume my sunny spot and the temperature starts to drop. I decide that Duane has the right idea and climb into my tent and stretch out on my down bag and sleeping pad. It's very cozy up here.
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| Looking south from our camp at Upper Desolation Lake Photo by Duane Bindschadler |
ORT is the acronym for Operational Readiness Test. A term I've opted from my old colleagues at Space Systems Lab to describe the final days of testing prior to launch.