The place where I lived for
sixteen summers (1988–2003) was a choice part of an utterly spectacular
landscape of National Park caliber. In fact, Yosemite Park lay on the far side
of the several craggy peaks visible from the cabin, only a few miles distant. These
peaks—Tower, Ehrnbeck, and Hawksbeak—are situated on a section of the Sierra
crest that takes an anomalous west-to-east jog in the otherwise northwest-to-southeast
trending range. This meant that the peaks along this stretch had directly
north-facing walls. Winter storms from the Pacific drop large quantities of
snow when they slam into the crest and it piles up on the lee side. In
addition, the north sides of the precipitous granite peaks are deeply shaded
and hold snow significantly longer. The net effect is that, through the millennia,
accumulating snow formed glaciers that were both deeper and flowed farther than
others east of the Sierra crest. The country between Bridgeport and Sonora
Pass, in particular, boasted some of the deepest and longest of these valleys. ◦◦◦◦ My summer residence was located at the lower end of mile-long Upper
Piute Meadows, which fills the bottom of this deeply cut glacial valley like an
emerald-green lake in early summer, slopes on either side rising in excess of
2000 feet high. These slopes are themselves the flanks of towering ridgelines
rimming other glacially-hewn valleys. Mostly smooth-sided, dotted with rocky
outcrops, the ridges are topped with several jagged-edged peaklets that, during
the last ice-age, were the only points protruding from a virtual ice-cap that almost
buried the entire region. ◦◦◦◦The
cabin is located on a small rise above the meadow’s outlet, where the meandering
West Walker River cuts through solid bedrock before plunging down a rocky
gorge. From my porch, looking up at the mountain peaks, the slope on the left (and
on the river’s far side) was granitic. The right-hand side, rising directly
behind the cabin, was of a slatey, metamorphic rock. Both slopes were heavily
timbered but with different kinds of trees and the terrain was different based
on its substrate. ◦◦◦◦ The slope
behind the cabin was over a mile and a half broad, meeting the head of Tower
Creek to the south. It was a wilderness within the Wilderness—a place where virtually
no one ever ventured. (Aside from me and a few friends.) I called it “Piute
Wilderness”. Because of the nature of the slatey rock, which was carved by
glaciers along natural fracture planes, it tended to form flat benches—a joy to
stumble upon unexpectedly, providing stretches of gentle strolling on the
otherwise steep and rugged mountainside. These sporadic benches harbored
several secret ponds and small lakelets—heavenly spots. I dearly loved
exploring the nooks and crannies. ◦◦◦◦ After
leaving the cabin and scrambling up several hundred vertical feet, there was a
tiny valley with a lovely snowmelt-fed brook flowing down it, fed all summer by
permanent snowfields higher on the mountain. It flowed through this charming
little secret valley, parallel to the slope, through shaded forests of red fir,
mountain hemlock, and lodgepole pine. The tumbling brook was lined with flower
gardens in places, carved rock slabs in others
and it was surely one of my favorite haunts of all. It had a feeling of
utter solitude and an untrammeled, primal quality that I cherished…food for my
soul. ◦◦◦◦ This first entry is from
an early exploration; the second tells of starting (for the first time) from
where the little creek flowed into the West Walker a half-mile downriver from
the cabin. It was this particular jaunt that led me to name it “Dinky Creek,”
having realized that I’d be spending more time exploring this gem and wanting
to make it my own. ◦◦◦◦ The Sierra
Nevada has hundreds of such pockets of untouched wildlands.
7 Aug (Wed) …needed to walk so in the afternoon I
headed down the gorge, then cut up toward the snowmelt-fed brook that spills
into Cranney’s meadow. ◦◦◦◦◦ Hit the little
creek lower down than I have before. (Usually climb straight up from the cabin
and run into it much higher.) Passed through a painfully beautiful scene: a
large dike of layered, exfoliating volcanic rock runs down the mountainside
through there. The creek cuts a gap through it, forming a narrow, twisting defile
about 30 yards long, its entrance flanked on either side by a veritable grove
of monkshood (rare around these parts) in full bloom. The mini-gorge’s vertical walls crusted with moss
and ferns, and the creek hurries through on a naked slab of tan-colored andesite.
Sometimes when I catch a glimpse of genuine natural perfection in a place such as
this I feel the urge to sit down and stay awhile (like…for a few days). It
somehow feels wrong to just walk on
by. ◦◦◦◦◦ But so much more to see so I wandered on upstream where the creek
alternately disappears into the mountain and reappears when it flowed over
solid rock hidden under the rubble. The display of flowers was one of the
finest I’ve seen this year as I knew it would be. Corn lily and columbine being
attacked by aphids. Followed it to the mouth of the tiny cirque where this
creek originates and found a fine viewpoint on a rock with Piute Meadows and
all down-canyon laid out. Contoured across the slope onto benches and found four beautiful tarns. Followed their
drainage down steeply and hit the trail past the head of Piute Meadow. An inspiring
jaunt into pure wilderness, to places where no
one ever goes.
25 Aug (Sun) OFF. ◦◦◦◦◦ …in the afternoon I took a
walk. Headed across the river and down the gorge to where it bends north again
near Bart’s old basecamp. I followed what I’m now calling “Dinky Creek” from
where it dumps into the West Walker to its very source. (Went as far as the
mouth of a little cirque a couple of weeks ago.) I’ve never done the bottom
section before…usually hit it higher when hiking straight up behind the cabin.
The lower part is quite steep and in a series of steps…lovely meadows almost
finished blooming. Got to where I’d intersected the creek on my last hike. Then
through that marvelous mini-gorge between its rock walls. Barely a trickle over
the slabs now. Climbed up to the top this time to look down into it. I was
standing on a tiny ledge when I decided to head back home instead of do the
whole hike. But was on the wrong side of the creek—I’d have to traverse and
clamber down into and back out of the thing. Then I noticed a small ledge on
the other side and a bit lower than me. Hey!
I could jump that! It was only about ten feet across but a sheer 25 foot
drop to the slabs. Inched down to a really good take-off point and sampled the
jump in my mind just to get the adrenaline going. Then I got the wild hair and
my brain said, Just do it! Just because
you can! And I allowed myself to be tricked (again) and leapt. It was one
of those deals where you feel complete certainty but know that you can’t stop
and think it over—immediate action is required. ◦◦◦◦◦ The ledge was small with a thin plate of rock
on it that looked like it might possibly skate so I landed with one foot on the
slate-y piece and the other on soil right on the rim. It was a good, solid
leap; unfortunately, my right shin came into contact with the edge of a sharp
flake above my landing pad. I came to a stop, then started to sway backwards. Was
mostly conscious of a brand new pain in my leg but then noticed I was slowly
starting to sway backwards. The body was in balance though so I just swung back
over my feet again. Good thing. But I’d de-barked my shin pretty good and the
blood ran down my leg, soaking my sock dramatically. “Only a flesh wound!”
[Monty Python reference…to be read with mock-British accent.] Headed home and
walked it off. [Somewhat later, added this note to the side of the page: “Days
later, noticed a small piece of cartilage or bone sticking out of the scab. The
thick scab didn’t fall off for a solid month.”]
As a sort of postscript:
this mildly curious incident—a sort of follow-up to my wild leap. (Which, I
should explain, was not an isolated event; as a climber, I’d many times been in
situations where a big jump was either necessary or preferable to a long
detour. “Calculated jumps” are one of a mountaineer’s many skills, and something
I happened to be good at.) This happened five years later, 1996. At the time
I was in a committed relationship with a woman. She had two children and they’d all come visit. They were staying
at the cabin at this time and, after lunch one day, we all walked up the
mountainside directly behind the cabin to a remnant snow patch for some
“glissading.” (Skiing with just your boots on; it can actually be great fun
when the snow is right.) I’d been to this spot some says before and knew the
kids would enjoy it. Johanna was ten; Sage, fifteen, was already a gonzo skier and went on
to be something of a star, featured in many films doing truly crazy stunts on
skis.
8
Jul (Mon) …. After lunch we tromped out to the outhouse and on up the hill toward
Ranger Notch to go glissading. The place I’d been to a week ago was not as good
this time (snow surface rougher plus rocks and willows now poking up in the
runout zone). We had many fine runs, though. Sage going nuts of course; he and
I shooting down the steepest pitches while Katie and Johanna took lesser
slides. But we got them both on some steeper bits—the snow was better there—and
I thoroughly enjoyed having Jo slide down into my arms, catching and whirling
her around. Sage was doing airborne 360° jumps off the lip and then him and I
took turns standing like a statue while the other shot past as close as
possible going probably 20 miles per. Had a great
time! This is something I’d never do alone…one of those things that’s
better when you can share it. ◦◦◦◦◦ Jo was pooped. All of us were. We marched
back down the hill. A curious incident: Got to Dinky Creek, intersecting it
right at the little rock gorge in the andesite. We’d been there last year and
I’d showed the kids the place where I jumped across the gorge on a complete
whim, just because “I knew I could.” When I made the jump (which was downward
and maybe a bit less than ten feet, onto a tiny ledge near the top of the
cliff) it went as planned but my right shin met a sharp edge, which tore off a
chunk of my leg, ouch. So…the “strange event” was that we crossed the creek
just below this gap where I’d leapt and, doing a little hop-across from a rock
in the water to the far side, I landed on a flat rock “platter” that flipped up
unexpectedly and caught me on both shins. I bled very little but it hurt. It
was a couple of minutes later when I realized that the very last time I’d
barked my shins (which, I should note, are both covered with similar scars) was that time, probably five years ago,
not fifty feet away.
© 2017 by Tim Forsell 12 Feb 2017
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