The first day on the trail was pretty unremarkable; or at least pretty
unmemorable.
Perhaps it is because we four were trying to “lie low” and earn the
adults forgetfulness. Perhaps it is because
the first day of a long hike is so taxing on a body that is not completely used
to the altitude and the physical stress.
I do remember getting in the swing of the hike. Trudging along, focusing on moving one foot
forward at a time. Adjusting pack straps
and equipment. Dipping a cupful of water
each time we crossed a creek. I had been
hiking with my brothers and father for a few years already by this time, so it
wasn’t completely unfamiliar to me and I morphed into the routine pretty
readily.
The second day found us deep in a rugged canyon, paralleling Bubb’s
Creek. Beautiful green bushes, with a
high flowing creek running the last of the snow melt out of the high up country
downward towards the hundreds of square miles of farmland that give the Central
Valley of California the reputation of one of the world’s great agricultural
resources.
White granite rock in boulders and slabs jumbled and piled along the
base of cliffs and along the creek bed.
Stout pine trees and heavy low brush piled along the path and up in to the
fallen slabs of rock fronting the cliff faces.
Chipmunks and Marmots scurried about under the edges of the brush
seeking out berries and left over pine nuts.
Jays and sparrows flashed through the sunlight shafts, with now and then
a hummingbird hovering inquisitively next to a brightly colored backpack or
patch.
Still deep in the valley, next to Bubb’s creek, there was a wide spot that
we hit in early afternoon. And while it was
not the originally planned time to end the day’s hiking, since we had started on
the trail just about full dawn, it was the spot that we had planned to spend the
night.
We boys gladly fell out of line and set up our shelters and campsites.
Bubb’s creek flowed over a long solid stretch of granite right next to
the campsite area. The creek was about
20 feet wide and no more than 4” deep along that stretch. Moving very fast across the water polished
granite, it ran for a couple hundred yards at a fairly steep angle. A nature made waterslide that ended in a deep
pool.
The sun was still shining and high enough that we would have sun for
several more hours, so, once camp was set, we all changed into our cut-off
jeans and grabbed our sleeping pads to head for the creek. What a
wonderful way to spend an afternoon.
Insulite pads in hand we scrambled to the top of the slide area, waded
out to mid-stream, and flopped down on our pads to shoot down the creek at what
felt like a million miles an hour.
Branches and leaves flailing past in a blur, rocks on the side of the
creek bed seeming to streak towards you, only to “veer” out of the way and miss
you at the last second. Time after time,
as fast as we could get from bottom to top; laughing and joking, the quintessencial
summertime experience for a boy.
The next morning found us on the trail early once more. Just a short distance up Bubb’s creek we left
that main trail and began a climb that would take all morning. I don’t rightly know how high that pass was,
but it was the pass that lead to Garner Basin.
Uphill with a pack on your back, often in the full sun of an alpine
mountain is a hot tiring way to get anywhere.
Worse still was that beginning the night before I had been experiencing
altitude sickness. I threw up dinner,
and again breakfast. I was running on
empty. A condition I was to come to know
very well on this first 50-miler. But on
this day, headed up hill, I was at the end. Near the top, likely a half mile or so from
the pass itself, I hit my personal wall.
Not in fact, but in emotional, psychological truth. I had climbed all I could climb.
I will never forget Barry stopping and tying my backpack to his. Nor watching him struggle the combined two
packs into the air and onto his back.
Nor his solid one foot at a time completion of the climb while I rather
shame-faced followed. In later years, I
myself would lose count of the times I strapped a second pack onto my own and
carried it up a hill, having done so for boys and other adults as well.
But on that day, I forgave Barry for all the incurred taunting and harassment
he had shown me over the years of growing up.
On that day, I worshipped the ground he walked on.
We ate lunch on the top of Garner Pass.
Mountains and valleys spread before us as far as the eye could see. Uncounted acres of barren and rugged granite,
gleaming white in the noon-day sun. Near
and far were the emerald and sapphire blue of high mountain lakes and
streams. No tree grew up that high. Barely any brush. And yet, even here we found a number of fat,
furry Marmots. Sneaking and creeping
through the rocks and trying to get close enough to a backpack to rob it of
some treasured food.
It was difficult to believe that those fuzzy critters could find and
steal enough food to not only live on, but store up enough to last the snow
bound winters. But I have meet many on
rock strewn passes as high as 12,000 feet in my life. So hard to believe or not, I have to accept
that it is true.
On the summit, right next to the “trail” that led down into Garner
basin we found a set of Mule pack boards with the name “Bob” stenciled on
them. The pack boards looked as if they
had been there a long time. I remember
us boys arguing about how and why a packer would leave a set of pack boards
behind while we munched on our beef jerky, peanuts, and dried fruit.
Lunch over, and Garner Lake just below us, calling our names for a long
afternoon swim, we boosted our packs off the ground and started down the trail.
Trail would be an overstatement to most civilized people, but I have
been on worse now and again since then.
While in truthful disclosure I have to admit not often.
This trail was really a sting of marginally connected flat spots in the
middle of what was obviously and active avalanche shoot. Probably even an active rock slide zone. There were places that if it wasn’t for a
hand hold or two, you could be sure of falling.
And other spots where we all but slide 6 or 7 feet down smooth slabs.
About half way down we found the answer to why the pack boards were
left on top of the pass.
Apparently, during a rest break, Bob had stepped off of the edge up
above because wedged deep in a crevasse we found a Mule skull. Clean and bleached white. We thought it only fitting, both because of
the pack boards up on top of the pass and the dangers of descending the trail,
that we dig Bob’s skull out and we mount it right next to the trail for all to
see.
At least until the next avalanche.
© Copyright 2015, Marty Vandermolen, All
Rights Reserved
No comments:
Post a Comment