Finally exiting the avalanche shoot after coming down off of Garner
pass along the upper end of Garner Basin, it was obvious that we had to work
our way around the lake to the far end before we were going to find a good
camping location.
Most high mountain lakes are buried deep up into a rugged valley. Rocks, sliding and fracturing off of the
cliff faces, fall and jumble in the bottom of the narrow valley. Time and weather, and brush growth and leaves
are pushed down the valley by springtime melts and summer thunderstorms,
finally creating a dam usually fairly close to the mouth of the valley where it
has branched off of a larger wider valley.
That dam slows the flow of each successive year’s run off, building
higher and higher ramparts, causing the creation of a lake. The rampart area each year gets thicker and
thicker, and ultimately creates a broad relatively level outflow area where trees
and brush take root and grow. But the
upper end of the lake and the sides remain right up against the base of the
cliffs that form the valley.
As we worked our way around the western side of the lake, the first
thing that caught our eye was the 20 foot high “BSA Troop XXX” spray painted on
the face of the eastern cliffs (I will not cite the number for tarring the good
generations of that troop that had nothing to do with this stupidity). And while the effort to climb the cliff face,
not to mention the additional carry load of all the spray paint cans was
impressive, I had to wonder about the wisdom of spray painting a granite cliff
face in a protected National Park.
On finally working our way to the outfall creek and camping area, we
found that the same dummies had cleaned dozens of fish in the creek at the
campground. Literally; in the creek, leaving
rotting gills and guts and heads covering the bottom rocks of the creek and
fouling the water source for those downstream and unaware of the extensive
level of decaying flesh in the water source.
And to cap it all, they had chopped up a number of small trees and left
their empty paint cans cluttered around to boot.
Intentionally defacing a cliff, fouling a water source, hacking up
trees, and leaving the place littered with cans; not only is it morally wrong,
but is against the tenets of your organization, and you have gone out of
your way to sign your work to make sure you get credit for it all?
Now, you have to be a special kind of idiot to do all that. Kinda like the imbecile I would later run
across who tried to use his report card to fake out a dollar bill changer, but
that is a story for another time.
Much to our dismay, the adults had us all do the right thing. We spent the next several hours digging holes,
sifting fish offal out of the stream, crushing and bagging spray cans, and
doing our best to return the area to useable condition for the next groups to
come through. That effectively used up
all of the swimming time we boys had planned, but, since the following day was
to be a “Lay-over” day where we would not be hiking but staying at the same
camp, there was not a complete revolt.
The following morning, after breakfast, camp chores and washing out
dirty clothes, we boys played cards and built wooden boat models while we
waited for the day to warm up enough to go swimming.
You see, lake water at 10,000 feet is cold. Really, really cold. I have swum in lakes that had the lower ends
of glaciers dipped into them. And lakes
that had ice floating around in lazy circles.
I have literally come out of the water after a brief swim with my skin
tinted blue, and my teeth chattering.
So, swimming at altitude was always more about the jump and the splash
than it was about the laps.
Once the day had warmed up, we all grabbed our cut-offs and a tee shirt
to use as a towel and headed back around the lake up the trail towards the pass
to a spot we had seen the day before on the way down lake.
There we had seen a solid topped rock face that was maybe 35 feet above
the water with two or three different height levels closer down. And when we had walked by, we had dropped
several large rocks and from the deep “kerump” sound they made hitting the surface,
and the clear water and being able to count the seconds as the rock faded down
to rest on the bottom, we knew it was deep enough to jump.
We spent a great deal of time joking with each other, wrestling, and
jumping in to swim rapidly back to shore, climb up and do it all over. After some time, we were all pretty winded
and we settled in to “sun-dry”. When you
are carrying everything you have on your back, the weight of any single item
becomes very important. And as much as
we used big towels at home swimming in the rock quarries and beaches, those towels
were far too heavy to carry out backpacking.
So you used a tee shirt as a towel, or better yet, just splashed some
water on a stretch of granite to wash off the dirt and then lay out in the sun
and let he sun dry you and warm you at the same time.
The thing to know about that is, just like there is less oxygen in each
breath, there is less “stuff” between you and the sun at 10,000 feet than there
is down here in the low lands. And with
less stuff blocking the sun, you could burn skin really fast and real easy. Especially skin that seldom was exposed to
sun.
Now, being boys, in the prime of our teens and being out in the
wilderness, we often just stripped down naked to go swimming. And as long as you held your hands
strategically, the sudden deceleration of various body parts was not a problem
when you hit the water.
Well, we all climbed out, naked and blue, and chattering to lie in the
sun. Water dries fast up there and
before long one of the older boys says we had all better put something on so we
don’t get burnt.
One of the Vandermolens decides that nope, he is going to keep at it
and get himself an “all-over” tan. So he
lays there tender parts and all exposed to the “gentle tanning rays” of the sun
for what in truth was probably not more than 30 minutes. Course, several of the guys kept telling him
that he was going to get fried, but heck, it was his body and he didn’t feel
anything, so he just kept on soaking in those wonderful rays.
Turns out he probably should have covered up a good 25 minutes before
he did.
And while I won’t directly say which one of us it was, I will admit to
finding it extraordinarily funny watching him try to waddle down the trail, wincing
with every step, with both hands holding the front of his jeans pulled forward
on either side of the zipper all that next day.
Seemed like the slightest pressure or chafing was excruciating from
where I stood.
Did I have any compassion?
Hell no.
I was his younger brother.
© Copyright 2015, Marty Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved
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