The diversity of life in the Sierra Nevada, the great Range of Light, shines brightly at dawn and dusk light. We were treated to a wonderful show as we walked down a ridge toward a river on a beautifully clear morning.
We crossed a long, wooden bridge at the river and then began our climb up to Silver Pass. The trail of a jetliner curved with the mountain peak above as if by design.
Trees growing out of sheer rock faces greeted us on the far side of the valley, and we hiked on towards them. The impossibility of such grand, tall trees growing at alpine heights in a few inches of soil would be a recurring miracle of our journey.
Having received such a positive and weatherman-approved prediction of clear skies at Silver Pass, I marched on with high hopes, despite feeling a bit punk-- sick at my stomach-- and weak, from an unknown source.
My energy dropped and my mood turned down immediately as we crossed over the pass and saw smoke filling the horizon distance. While hiking down the far valley we ran into an older, bearded, Appalachian-looking gentleman named Turtle, who proceeded to tell us his recent-life story: layoff from job in 2009, then hiked the Appalachian Trail for a year, came last December to hike the Pacific Crest Trail but had an injury and hiked up the west coast instead, just started back on trail, 750 miles in. He was cooking with a tin can because his stove had died. He had repeat run-ins with Rangers since he refused to carry a bear canister. He was a character-- a man living on long-distance trails-- moving-- walking through life-- slowly, like a turtle. The smoke didn't concern him at all. Perhaps we were just amateurs, reading the news too much, scared and cautious instead of alive and accepting, moving.
As we hiked down the valley the smoke seemed to improve. It was staying higher in the sky, leaving pretty darn good conditions at lowers elevations. We found a rock outcropping with a killer view of the far mountains and trees valley below. And we pondered how lucky we were to be alive, present, here.
Then we hiked down relentlessly to Lake Edison, the last good water for eight miles. We setup camp, jump in an amazing watering hole and enjoyed the sunshine on the cool rocks. I took a nap--the cure for everything-- and felt much better as a result. We ate dinner and I read the account of John Muir's first summer in the Sierra until late. His passion for the Sierra inspired the environmental movement and I felt honored to live that passion.
Comments
Post a Comment