August 2013
Suddenly feeling my boots start to slip as I was
trying to lower my backpack down, I had no choice but to let go and let it drop
over the ledge. I watched in dismay as it tumbled down the sharp incline,
pleading, “stop!” Some 20 meters below a clump of bushes heard my plea, caught
it, and, thankfully, saved most of my gear from about another 100-meter tumble down
the mountain. One water bottle was not so lucky, and I watched it bounce and go
flying out of sight over the ledges further below. Five minutes before,
realizing I could not get down attached to a 40 lb. backpack, I had removed it,
and now sat on a series of ledges, slightly concerned but carefully pondering
my next move.
The mountain had been
giving me messages for the past two days. Yet here I was, almost stuck on a
sharp incline several hundred meters up the side of Elizabeth Pass, high in the
Sierra Nevada Mountains, afternoon thunder clouds starting to ominously roll
in. Momentarily
forgetting the previous day's warning, I had spent a glorious, sunny morning, scrambling off
trail up towards magnificent Lonely Lake at the edge of Sequoia National Park,
and then over to a stunning thousand-foot drop looking north across the
boundary and into the heart of Kings Canyon National Park. Hoping there was a
way down to Big Bird Lake below – so I could finally continue my planned
backcountry patrol back towards the National Forest boundary some 20 miles
north – I was discouraged to see that there was no way down. Once again, Eagle
Envy found me, staring down into the spacious valley below. How I wanted to
leap off the cliff and just soar. Brother eagle, you have a powerful gift. Our
feet and hands (and less frequently, our brains) are our gifts, so I turned
around and attempted to use them to cut across the steep slope leading back
towards the Pass. Feeling rushed once realizing how far I had to go to get back
to the trail, a momentary lapse into my city-inspired haste (brain power?) had
led me to the precarious ledge and my poor backpack’s tumble down its side. For
the second straight afternoon, I had learned about listening to the mountain.
The day before I had
been sauntering towards Elizabeth Pass, soaking in the absolutely divine High
Sierra vistas along the Great Western Divide. Not in any hurry, I came up
towards the Pass and ran into a hiker just coming down. I had noticed the
clouds starting to boil off to the south and east, and this fellow obviously
had as well. He was a bit shaken and more than happy to be well off the Pass
before the clouds rumbled right over it. Suddenly realizing that I would not be
crossing for at least a few hours (google “granite” and “lightning” and see
what you find) I filled up my water bottles at a conveniently located stream
and hiked back down to the cover of some trees a half mile back, well away from
the enormous granite cliffs. Along the way I saw three young folks also heading
up. After sternly warning them to stay off the exposed granite and clear of the
area until all the clouds and thunder had passed, I found a safe spot and sat
down to wait it out. When the mountain speaks, she does not mince words.
The sun poked out about
4:00pm so I quickly gathered my gear and went for it. Going as quickly as my
tired legs could push me almost straight uphill, I got about 45 minutes away
from the Pass. It is quite a hike up to 11,300 feet. I noticed the clouds
returning, and quickly. Stuck in indecision for a moment, I continued on. Then
stopped, perhaps 30 minutes from the top. Thunder roared on either side of me.
“This is stupid,” I said aloud, and quickly turned around and headed back down
as fast as my now exhausted legs would go. Ten minutes down I saw those three
young folks going up. Again warning
them and hoping that by seeing a Ranger retreating, they might do the same, I
made it clear they should not continue on up. I heard one girl exclaim, “Wow,
he’s even going down.” But the guy (of course) replied, “I think we’re gona
push through and get over.” I again urged them to be very, very careful and to
stay away from the granite. Several hours later, I was very worried about those
three kids who had, evidently, yet to learn how to hear the mountain’s clear
voice.
That evening, I took
cover under two small pine trees. It began to rain as I huddled under my
poncho, making sure to keep my sleeping bag and clothes dry. At sunset, the
clouds broke for a moment, and I came out to observe perhaps the most
spectacular light I have ever seen. The mountains glowed an ethereal red, and
suddenly another streak of red light seemed to jump out of one of the ridges,
growing, climbing up to the sky. I was watching a rainbow being born. Perhaps that
was my gift for listening to the mountain? That night, I fitfully slept,
awaking on at least three occasions to thunder, rain, and lightning, and
awaking another two times to a clear moonlight sky. Bizarre dreams came and
went as the night slowly passed. Assuming I was to retreat down the mountain
the next day, I was very glad to greet the dawn and see the clouds disappearing
to a bright, sunny, morning sky. Feeling the storm had passed, thus began the
adventure that ended with me almost stuck on that ledge, backpack tumbling.
Finally edging my way
down a series of three or four ledges, I had made it off the side of Elizabeth
Pass. Retrieving my backpack and a bit shaken by the steep climb down and the
growing clouds, I stopped a short distance below, gathered my thoughts and my
senses for a moment. Not long enough, however, as I would soon find out. I
radioed my dispatch to confirm what the mountain had just told me – big storm
moving in, thunder and rain expected. I started down, but then thought to look
for my lost water bottle, as it must have fallen somewhere nearby. Snapping a
picture of the soaring cliff on the north side of the Pass, I set my camera and
my backpack on a large, flat boulder, and walked up the drainage towards where
I had come down. Sure enough, there the water bottle lay, bashed and cut up by
the rocks, but intact. I laughed at my luck, put my backpack back on, and
quickly walked down to the trail a short distance below. No longer presuming to
cross Elizabeth Pass at all on this patrol, I headed down and away from the
exposed granite cliffs that act as lightning rods when storms pass overhead. On
the way I passed a large group who had crossed about the time the clouds began
rolling in. They had spent a rainy, dreary night on the other side. “So you
must be the Ranger the three kids came up behind?!” Evidently the muchachos had passed a terrifying
evening not far below the Pass on the other side. Alive, thankfully; shaken to
the core, hopefully. Always listen to the mountain.
I get very nervous
having to cross rock faces when thunder and storms are brewing close by. As
such, I was moving quickly that afternoon, too quickly. About halfway back to
the Bearpaw High Sierra Camp, I realized another rush-driven error: I had left
my camera on that boulder on the side of Elizabeth Pass. $300 and chock full of
stunning High Sierra photography. These are the things that happen when we live
at city tempo. Something the Sequoias had been telling me since last Summer:
Don’t rush anywhere. Ever. It was close to 4:00pm, and the storm was about to
hit. I stared back up at the mountain. There was no way I could possibly get
back up there without being in the middle of a High Sierra thunderstorm.
Cursing my haste and my failure to always listen to the mountain, I retreated
down to Bearpaw, arriving in a steady rain, soaked, hungry, utterly exhausted.
My day saved by the kindness of sister Alisha who provided me with a dry tent
and a chance to recup during a blissful 10 hours of dry sleep that night. I had
not gotten even halfway through my planned patrol, but had learned more about
Wilderness Rangering than in perhaps any other weekend this entire Summer. When
the mountain speaks, she does not mince words.
Having been sound
asleep by 8pm, the next morning I awoke early. Rather than being discouraged by
the whole affair, I felt good. I felt like I was actually hearing the voice of
these blessed Sierra Nevadas, in all their fury and distress and beauty and
balance. I resolved to put my wilderness training to the test and actually try
to retrieve those wonderful pictures off the side of that mountain. Chance of
success? Maybe 10%, at best. Yet the walk that morning was perhaps another gift
one receives when you listen to the mountain. The Quaking Aspens glistened in
the dawn’s light. The morning shadows slowly stretched across the ridges and
valleys. The sun was pure and bright, all clouds from the night before gone.
Deer and bear tracks were everywhere. The newly filled mountain streams were
liquid sanctuaries in which I gratefully doused my face, if not my soul, that
morning. I sat for a moment by the main creek in the valley, staring back up at
the mountain, and simply gave thanks. Glorious morning, whether or not I found
that little black camera case.
Soon I was on the side,
once again, of grand Elizabeth Pass, for the fourth time. I would never get to
actually cross, but felt far more accomplished in having been told NOT to, and having humbly listened (God
knows what might have happened had I not – in the mountains, these are often
life or death decisions). Retracing my steps, thinking through every moment of
the previous afternoon, I remembered the last picture I had taken, the last
view of the north wall. I struggled to find the ledge I had come down, as there
was no less than a dozen that looked exactly the same. I meandered the side of
the mountain for almost an hour. I knew it had to be close. Then, in perhaps
the final gift one receives when listening to the mountain, as my optimism
slowly started to fade to a resolve that my camera search and rescue was not to
be… above me I saw a hawk swooping in wide circles over one of the ledges (and
no, I’m not making this up). He soared around and around. One can choose to
discredit these things, these voices. Or one can choose to listen.
That was my ledge.
I thought through where I must have walked coming off
of that ledge. I walked down the slope. I saw the flat boulder. I saw a little
black case laying on it. And I’ll be god-damned if I didn’t find that camera on
the side of an enormous mountainside, after a High Sierra thunderstorm, intact,
only slightly moist, no damage done whatsoever.
Always listen to the
mountain. And her children.
Back at the High Sierra
Camp, they could not believe I had found the camera. Laughing, I joked, “I
believe you are witnessing the transformation of a humble second year seasonal
Forest Service employee into a striped Wilderness Ranger!” I still had far to
go, and the storm clouds always come in the afternoon in the Sierras. As such,
the remaining ten-mile hike out was another rain-filled, thunderous affair.
After the previous three exhausting days, my feet ached, my legs strained to
get another mile, my lungs gasped for air as I made sure to stay ahead of the
coming storm. I had to stop at least a dozen times, to simply breathe. Thunder
roared overheard the entire way. Probably hiking literally at the edge of the
storm, the sun was actually shining, but it rained steadily most of the way. My
pack was soaked, I was soaked. I do not think I have ever been more physically
drained than I was after that 20 mile adventure up and down through the
mountains, under that rolling storm, across nerve-wracking exposed granite,
trying to get to low ground before it hit with all its mighty mountain might.
It was one of the most
rewarding days of my life.
Always listen to the
mountain.
*Addendum: Lessons in Patience & Persistence
July 2014
A year later I ventured
back up towards Elizabeth Pass. The weather was glorious and the mountain spoke
clearly, inviting us to climb and cross over. It is a very difficult hike! But
the views from the top are stunning. Under the perfect Sierra blue sky, one can
see for miles in every direction. It got me thinking about waiting for and
recognizing what in Portuguese is called, “a
hora certa”: the right moment.
Had I somehow forced myself over the top in last
Summer’s storm, I might have made it without being struck by lightning. I might
have scurried down the other side thankful to finally be over. I might have
searched for an hour to find a suitable place to camp in the midst of the miles
of granite boulders that cover the other side. And I might have missed that
surreal sunset. What I certainly would not have done, however, is calmly gaze
over a divine landscape for well over an hour, in awe of the Earth. Nor eat a
delicious lunch atop an 11,000+ ft. mountain pass on a gorgeous afternoon. Nor
take a blissful little High Sierra catnap to rest very tired legs before slowly
continuing on my journey. Last Summer, my experience at the top would have been
rushed, fearful, bad.
Not the way to spend time in the mountains, or
anywhere for that matter.
Waiting patiently for the right moment is a difficult
task in a world of instant gratification. But being persistent enough to
recognize and act upon the arrival of that moment… now that is a gift. A gift
one gets when listening to the mountain.
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