My old friend, Lorenzo—the
figure-of-speech king—has this odd expression he breaks out on rare occasions: Bus-man’s
holiday. It sounds awfully British and, near as I can tell, denotes “something
one does for pleasure in their spare time that they also do to make a living.” As
in: a bus driver, on vacation, taking a bus tour for the fun of it. Or, say, an
auto-mechanic who fixes cars on his days off. A peculiar turn of phrase (though
very Lorenzo-esque) but it resonates and now I use it, too. Every so often I’ll
tell somebody, “I’m going on a bus-man’s holiday.” What? Then I get to explain: it means I’m leaving one of my
mountain hideaways—Piute Meadows cabin or the shack on Granite View Road, right
below Lone Pine Peak—to head off on a jaunt into some other mountain range (or an
obscure desert canyon) in search of a little R & R.
Such was the case last
October when, right after our seasonal lay-offs, Michael Rodman and I went on a
backpack trip into Sequoia National Park after spending all summer walking
around in other parts of the Sierra. We’re both veteran Forest Service wilderness
rangers who’ve been extremely fortunate to work in such wonderful places and—this
is very important—with supervisors
who were also friends and allies. But both of our work-seasons (his, out of the
Lee Vining office; mine out of Bridgeport’s) had been plagued by tense struggles
with new bosses and the angst spawned by dealing with inferior superiors. Both
of us were just beginning to emerge from under clouds of frustration and
resentment; our summers had been very nearly spoiled. We needed healing in the
form of some primitive and unconfined recreation.
Joining
us were Michael’s cousin, Dan, and Dan’s girlfriend, Erin. The couple were from
Philadelphia, PA but moved out west a year ago to pursue their dream of
becoming farmers. They were living simply and quietly on a small collective,
growing organic vegetables, and had been working long hours during several
harvests—entire days spent bent-over between the rows—but had a little break
before the next crops came in. The two were eager to go visit Sequoia for the
first time while this lengthy spell of delightful Indian-summer weather held
out.
This would be Erin’s second
Sierra backpack; Dan’s third. Last fall, Michael took them on a shorter version
of our planned walk but they got into the enchanting, near-timberline groves of
foxtail pine that thrive in Cottonwood Lakes Basin. Both had been powerfully
affected by their previous visit; this was exotic terrain for the easterners. And those trees! So Dan and Erin would
receive a sort of hazing from the professionals: taking a particularly-scenic, cross-country
route into “The Park,” we’d pummel these flatlanders with majestic vistas and
tastefully-arranged alpine vignettes…gently guide them to that state-of-heart
which, on crystalline October days, can elicit rich emotions fringed in
something akin to anguish. For Michael and myself, escorting two wide-eyed novices
into our backyard Wilderness would add even more zest to the days ahead.
The morning after Erin and
Dan arrived, we packed hastily at Casa Malengo. Michael, uncharacteristically
serious, passed out group-equipment and supplies. In turn I was handed a couple
of avocados, several fancy Belgian chocolate bars, a jumbo-sized red bell
pepper, two tall cans of Guinness Draft, and a quart of white gas. Deftly, my
cohort loaded his own pack with the heaviest freight to keep down the weight on
our friends’ backs. (When Dan protested he said, “We’re only going out for a
few days!”)
For
us fortunates who live up on Granite View, accessing The Park entails driving
down three miles of sandy washboard and turning right onto paved Horseshoe
Meadows Road, which dead-ends at a trailhead after a little over fifteen miles—fully
one mile higher—up in the red-barked foxtail pines where it’s never, ever hot. Michael
carried us in his trusty old Toyota pickup; three up front, with me wedged (fairly)
comfortably between our packs in its open bed, watching those big views stream
by. A bone-dry Owens Valley spread and deepened as we climbed, while distant
desert ranges rose out of the eastern skyline one after another. We got to the
parking lot in an hour and found it nearly deserted. (By mid-fall, backpackers—fearful
of being caught in an early snowstorm—have largely stopped taking trips into
such high country.)
And
you don’t go far up the Cottonwood Lakes Trail before you’re over 10,000 feet.
The first couple of miles are dry and mostly flat. Then you cross a creek, take
an abandoned cut-off trail (because it’s prettier and you lose the other
hikers). Open flats, dense lodgepole pine forests…crumbling remnants of a log
cabin. You skirt meadows beside a chatty creek…sense wonders up ahead…climb
through some bouldery old moraine, crest a final rise, and—Oh my!—Welcome to the alpine fantasy-land of
Cottonwood Basin! You feel almost as if you’ve walked into a new world—it’s
that dramatic.
We
stepped through this portal into an extensively-glaciated basin famous for
being native home to the golden trout. The trail ascends in steps past a string
of azure-hued lakes prone to shimmering, with the squat bulk of 14,000 foot Mt.
Langley always in view. Much of this easygoing terrain is decomposed
granite—coarse, gravelly sand—filling in the flats and depressions between great
expanses of talus left behind by huge ice-rivers when they last withdrew.
Foxtail pines, where they can root in the thin soils, form open stands with
virtually no understory. Trees in these solemn, almost-spooky groves have been artfully
sculpted by wind, snow, rain, and drought. Adversity
breeds character. Dusk approaching, we strolled past scores of the charismatic
conifers, past one lake and then another, with no one else around…at all. A sweet
silence reigned.
We found a fine place to camp
in this soft, sandy hidden-hollow on the crest of a moraine with a skinny creek
just below. We filled our bottles there, not bothering to filter. Got set up,
sleeping bags laid out; made a judicious little Indian-fire and had supper and
good cheer. There were several types of glow—from the libations, our little
fire, a half-full (not half-empty) Moon overhead, countless stars, the Milky Way….
After
dinner, Michael and I were lured into taking a walk—that clear-sky Moon and thousands
of stars’ light bouncing off the pale ground made it bright enough to read by,
see colors by—and we were naturally drawn uphill to a craggy granite point that
presented a 360° view. To the west: the Sierra crest (also Park boundary), with
Mt. Langley right behind us…to the east: the Inyos, the Cosos, the Argus Range.
And on the southeast skyline was Telescope Peak (summit of the Panamints) with
the glow of Las Vegas—well beyond Death Valley—looking like another moon about
to rise.
We stood there above timberline—so mild we
were in shirtsleeves—sweating from the
climb. Absolute, untainted stillness. Our little campfire—a third of a mile
away—was the only non-celestial light we could see. The two of us had spoken
not a word since leaving camp and were quietly taking in the views from our
perch, still honoring the silence—a rare and precious thing in our busy world. So
many people have never even “heard” total silence. I have…inside caves. And up on a mountain in the course of this
breezeless Indian-summer eve, another variety; a kind that helped open my
senses to an awareness of all the space. Stars had strangely taken on a quality
of being actual other-places. Mesmerized,
that’s what I was wordlessly thinking when a thing of inexpressible beauty
splintered our fine silence and carried me away.
Music…call it “Blues of the Spheres.”
Dan began to play his harmonica. Michael and I
could hear him with stunning clarity from our balcony seats in this grand
theater. With no competition we heard the blues from maybe six hundred
yards—but the tune sounded as though it was coming through a door from the next
room. Ethereal sounds in the form of classic blues riffs drifted our way, offered
to the night by a fine musician. It was utterly arresting; he sounded so close. I looked over at my friend but
he was gazing off, clearly rapt, lost in his own…. Grinning jubilantly and
listening as hard as I could, electric energy coursed up my spine and crackled
on my scalp. I began to cry. Not to be over-dramatic—I wasn’t weeping—but joy-tears welled up,
overflowed, and a few ran down my cheeks. This doesn’t happen to me very often.
It takes something special to loosen me on the inside so that I can feel this way. Feel grace. (Music has
done it before.)
But
it wasn’t just the music, superlative acoustics, or even my brand-new, revised
view of eternity. It was also about standing on the edge of a cliff with a night-world
lit up and spread out below and there being a tiny dancing spark of firelight
where our friends were, where our beds were—which, on this night, was home. No
one else for miles around. When Dan began to blow us a tune on his harmonica, seeing
that tiny, bright light way down in the foxtails—I was right by that fire with
them, listening to Dan play. But no. I felt far away—miles away, up in the sky—looking
down on a wide world through eagle-eyes. And I saw my greater home, the Eastern
Sierra, this fine place on our truly exceptional planet where I’ve chosen to
make my stand. The tingling and tears came as a surprise gift. It was gratitude
that I was feeling. For all.
When
it ended we drifted back to camp separately and have never spoken about what happened
that night.
29 Mar 2004, 6 Jun 2013
© 2013 Tim
Forsell
All
rights reserved.
