June 13

It sounded like a shrieking trumpet. It stopped me on the trail, the penetrating volume of it. I looked back down at the saddle, from where I had just climbed up and from where the sound originated. Then it came again, this time as a fully charged cry; shrill, piercing, gnarled and incredibly loud. Its sound carried such a clarity that I swear I could hear the individual vibrations of the animals vocal chords. I knew it was a mountain lion. It was a distinctive sound, totally unmistakable. It was the sound of otherness, a sound that sends you out of your body reminding you of your mortality, your fragility in the face of something predatory. It was a good sound for me to hear. It left my truly rattled. I continued walking up the trail, after being momentarily gripped in awe, not wanting to break my pace nor to encounter the animal face-to-face. But what was the yell? Was it a defensive cry? Was it hunting? What kind of emotion was contained in that sound?

The mountains are beginning to change as I take my first steps onto the batholith of the Sierra Nevada. The mountains show more exposed granite and are shaped more fluidly like true plutons. The forests are more dense. The lichen is brighter, almost flourescent. This is happening right before my eyes.

Interesting experiences this week while sleeping without a shelter, out under the stars. Days ago, while sleeping beside an old dirt road in the desert, next to the buried LA aqueduct, several off-road jeeps circling me and rearing their headlights at me. An extremely frightening moment to be awoken suddenly by the grinding of motors, to be suddenly exposed by spotlights of halogen. One of the trucks halted, its two beams burning my eyes and its engine idling. For a moment, I was convinced that I would soon see the shadows of men jumping down from the vehicle and I would be surrounded by a gang of them. But, thankfully, nothing happened. The truck pulled away and left me back in darkness. Looking back up, the desert sky lucid and punctured by stars. I fell back asleep. Last night, camped overlooking the basin where Edwards Air Force Base is located. Unreal lights streaking across the sky accompanied by the sound of powerful but distant engines. The lights arranged in shapes that resembled no plane I had ever seen. Occassionally, the lights would burst and glow, revealing an aircraft that appeared closer to alien than military.

While walking, I touch things just to verify their reality. The spackle of lichen on rock, the chips of bark on a Jeffrey pine, the solidity of a pebble between my fingers.