It rained on us in our tent last night. We had stopped in darkness and made a good camp at around 8:30 and I believe that the rain started falling at 10:00 or thereabouts. It came down hard for quite a while, off and on until at least 2 am. The tent leaked, but only minimally. I felt low and depressed as I lay there uncomfortable and damp in my deflating sleeping bag. The stop at Tuolumne had been very successful (we were able to resupply amply and eat our bellies full) but I left feeling a bit rushed. Mainly, I had wanted to do a little more PocketMailing/journaling but I only had a very brief access window to use the store's telephone.
Today, the skies are cleared and the sun is shining -- singing, even -- the mountains of the high Sierra are all around us towering and windswept. There is a dusting of snow on the highest, bare cliffsides, left from last night's passing storm, I'd imagine. It is truly incredible out here, more stunning and enormous than expected. The trekking is strenuous, but it is easy to forget the body and its woes in the presence of such magnificence.
We hiked down along the Lyell Canyon's meadowy floor and started in on our first big pass (Donohue Pass) ascent early. Lyell Mountain is the highest peak in Yosemite National Park at just over 13000 ft and we climbed up along it's wet, glaciated, jagged face to pass at by its long, luminescent glaciers at 11,056 ft. Looking back at the canyon floor to the meandering snake creek and the brown narrow meadows, the distance and our height is grand. On either side of the valley, forested walls rise steeply, up and up, and on top of these walls rest another world -- mountains, huge and looming, three-dimensional now and licking at the fast changing cloud forms. Shadows pass over the canvass of rocky grey and blue up on top of California. Water spills from the last glacial remains of the summer. The peaks are endless and infinite.
At the pass we meet two backpackers resting. They are loving the view, panting and chatting next to their tossed aside packs. We pass on and head into the Ansel Adams Wilderness. To our left stands Donohue Peak; before us, as we descend, a vast shimmering wet world of boulders and stone, tiny drying, draining lakes, more unidentifiable peaks. We descend into a wonderful alpine park, reminding me of Jefferson Park and Paradise Park in the Oregon Cascades with its meandering and crashing creeklets, swimming with little fish, drying out autumn wildflowers, red grasses, and stone lined pathway. Deer bound away from us in packs, but seemingly not out of fear -- they just want their space, just as we want ours.
We lunch on a big warm stone under the sun, laying out the tent and our bags to dry. We dig into our instant hummus and polish the meal off with big thick mint Oreos. What a life it can be on top of a mountain with sweets and sun aplenty.
The day is a grand one. We are reinvigorated, freshly inspired, excited for the rest which is yet to come. It is interesting how frustations will come to a head and despair will linger close at hand, when suddenly, out of nowehere (or out of ourselves, our minds, our hearts, even?) the light will change and the new day will be just that: new. Even the rain tht fell last night has seemed to freshen things up. Maybe it is just a (thankfully benign) reminder to take stock and be happy with what we've got.
Afternoon sun over Banner and Ritter Peaks, white spackling frenzy on Thousand Island Lake surface. We push on and make it a long day, making camp on ridge overlooking San Joaquin River canyon and Agnew Meadows.
Us sitting across from one another, crosslegged on folded foam pads, sucking up noodles as Venus shines first light of a wider universe briefly before disappearing (due to our planetary pirouetting, of course) behind opposite ridge silhouette.
Rubs in the tent on sore legs and starting an outloud reading of Steinbecks's "Travels with Charley."
No comments:
Post a Comment