June 21
Enter the Sierra: an arduous climb up from the Kennedy Meadows region. We crossed meadows that are braided with ribbons of rivers, climbed along slopes of sculptured stone, through canyons studded with lodgepole pines. All of this work being done with twelve days worth of food on my back, prepared for a long term immersion in the high country. A true leap, for me, into the vivid unknown. There have been rumors along the trail that the Sierra will be impassable due to record amounts of snowfall during winter months. They say the high passes will require a full regalia of mountaineering equipment. They say that there will be hours of postholing. They say the strength of the rivers will sweep us away.
We have assembled a fine team of hikers, all of us marching together out of Kennedy Meadows, feeling strong enough as a group to enter the snowy passes, those very areas that everyone has warned us not to enter. We have chosen to stay together and help each other across this range. There is a sense of commitment amongst us all, a togetherness to assure ourselves that we are not alone.
As we climb higher and higher the air becomes thinner. The snow, too, becomes more abundant, filling in the slopes and sitting in increasingly larger patches. As we climb, my nervousness is mounting, my spine is siezed with the tension of foreboding, the imminence of danger, the unknowing of what really is lying ahead. I hide my anxiety about the upcoming passes by telling stupid jokes and stupid stories, trying hard not to psyche myself out. On the other hand, a sense of joy as we all climb farther and become engulfed in a carved landscape of twisted pines and jointed boulders and still frozen lakes. My nervousness is also a survival instinct. Nervousness as in all nerves active and alive, the body fully narrowed on the singular physical task of hauling a pack across the hills where our lungs gulp for oxygen and our feet crash through plates of frozen snow.
I fell yesterday. A stupid fall, the side of my shoe slid along a wet and greasy log. As I fell, the forty five pounds strapped to my back swung like a heavy pendulum, carrying me down with it. The crash was hinged on my ankle, which rolled inward as I hit the ground. I lay there looking up at the clusters of needles on a foxtail pine, admiring the patterned swirl of its wood. Then, slightly stunned, I realized that I had fallen and that I was in pain. Katie and Luna rushed over. I had to unbuckle my pack to even stand back up. So, now I am entering the high Sierra with a weak ankle that is wrapped in an ace bandange. A stupid fall that happened at the worst possible time, compounding my nervousness.
While climbing through a thicket of willows to get water, I see that the willow buds are still closed and I realize that spring hasnt even arrived here.
Enter the Sierra: an arduous climb up from the Kennedy Meadows region. We crossed meadows that are braided with ribbons of rivers, climbed along slopes of sculptured stone, through canyons studded with lodgepole pines. All of this work being done with twelve days worth of food on my back, prepared for a long term immersion in the high country. A true leap, for me, into the vivid unknown. There have been rumors along the trail that the Sierra will be impassable due to record amounts of snowfall during winter months. They say the high passes will require a full regalia of mountaineering equipment. They say that there will be hours of postholing. They say the strength of the rivers will sweep us away.
We have assembled a fine team of hikers, all of us marching together out of Kennedy Meadows, feeling strong enough as a group to enter the snowy passes, those very areas that everyone has warned us not to enter. We have chosen to stay together and help each other across this range. There is a sense of commitment amongst us all, a togetherness to assure ourselves that we are not alone.
As we climb higher and higher the air becomes thinner. The snow, too, becomes more abundant, filling in the slopes and sitting in increasingly larger patches. As we climb, my nervousness is mounting, my spine is siezed with the tension of foreboding, the imminence of danger, the unknowing of what really is lying ahead. I hide my anxiety about the upcoming passes by telling stupid jokes and stupid stories, trying hard not to psyche myself out. On the other hand, a sense of joy as we all climb farther and become engulfed in a carved landscape of twisted pines and jointed boulders and still frozen lakes. My nervousness is also a survival instinct. Nervousness as in all nerves active and alive, the body fully narrowed on the singular physical task of hauling a pack across the hills where our lungs gulp for oxygen and our feet crash through plates of frozen snow.
I fell yesterday. A stupid fall, the side of my shoe slid along a wet and greasy log. As I fell, the forty five pounds strapped to my back swung like a heavy pendulum, carrying me down with it. The crash was hinged on my ankle, which rolled inward as I hit the ground. I lay there looking up at the clusters of needles on a foxtail pine, admiring the patterned swirl of its wood. Then, slightly stunned, I realized that I had fallen and that I was in pain. Katie and Luna rushed over. I had to unbuckle my pack to even stand back up. So, now I am entering the high Sierra with a weak ankle that is wrapped in an ace bandange. A stupid fall that happened at the worst possible time, compounding my nervousness.
While climbing through a thicket of willows to get water, I see that the willow buds are still closed and I realize that spring hasnt even arrived here.
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