June 23
A day of rest under a cloudless sky, beside a loud Crabtree Creek. Rose up slowly after the others made their way out of camp, headed towards the summit of Whitney. Had a warm cup of tea with Katie and then explored the topography surrounding our base camp in Crabtree Meadows. Found an apex of weathered granite that allowed a panorama of towering peaks, like fangs above the lush meadows, the lodgepoles seem to be stitched onto the sides of the mountains. How great just to sit still, listening to the snow melting water falling drop by drop into a pond, observing the foxtail growing somehow from a crack in the boulder. Slowness of dripping meltwater, quiet undulation of wind against rock.
Since leaving the desert of southern California, it feels like Ive disappeared. The Sierra stands in contrast to the overly developed landscape of southern California. The interstates, the powerlines, the jeep roads. Everyday there was evidence of human intrustion, every view offered a vision of a manipulated land divided by parcel lines, irrigation circles, strips of road, reminders that I was never far away from the all too human world. Here, though, in the Sierra, the meadows are defined only by the curve of river, the streambanks cut by bending water, and the mountains are shaped only by the glaciers that retreated long ago and now only by the timber that swells up the slopes and the snow draped along the peaks.
In all my thousands of miles of hiking, I have never felt anything comparable to the Sierra it is a place removed, too high and too desolate to fit into the narrow parameters I formerly used to define the world. Anything I say about the Sierra will sound like a cliche. This is to be expected: great things resist description. These ranges are a high kingdom of stone and sky, a self contained nation of frozen lakes and ice glazed peaks. It feels like I have disappeared completely into another world, nothing else exists outside these walls.
My mileage has been reduced from about 25 miles per day to about 15 per day. This is a result of steeper and longer climbs, as well as the lack of oxygen at these high altitudes. Struggling uphill, each step is puncuated by a shortness of breath, as if I were sucking through a thin straw. The benefit to a slower pace is that it allows me more time to absorb this place.
Tomorrow we begin to cross a series of snow covered passes, each one a gateway to another matrix of peaks and rivers, new drainages, new ranges. These passes are the most dangerous and challenging aspect of the Sequoia/King's Canyon region. They are said to be high and steep.
This year, they are going to be especially snowbound. Everyone has warned us to stay away, let the snow melt and return later in the year. We are opting otherwise. My imagination has painted a
treacherous picture in my mind but my legs and lungs feel strong enough to charge the precipices.
A day of rest under a cloudless sky, beside a loud Crabtree Creek. Rose up slowly after the others made their way out of camp, headed towards the summit of Whitney. Had a warm cup of tea with Katie and then explored the topography surrounding our base camp in Crabtree Meadows. Found an apex of weathered granite that allowed a panorama of towering peaks, like fangs above the lush meadows, the lodgepoles seem to be stitched onto the sides of the mountains. How great just to sit still, listening to the snow melting water falling drop by drop into a pond, observing the foxtail growing somehow from a crack in the boulder. Slowness of dripping meltwater, quiet undulation of wind against rock.
Since leaving the desert of southern California, it feels like Ive disappeared. The Sierra stands in contrast to the overly developed landscape of southern California. The interstates, the powerlines, the jeep roads. Everyday there was evidence of human intrustion, every view offered a vision of a manipulated land divided by parcel lines, irrigation circles, strips of road, reminders that I was never far away from the all too human world. Here, though, in the Sierra, the meadows are defined only by the curve of river, the streambanks cut by bending water, and the mountains are shaped only by the glaciers that retreated long ago and now only by the timber that swells up the slopes and the snow draped along the peaks.
In all my thousands of miles of hiking, I have never felt anything comparable to the Sierra it is a place removed, too high and too desolate to fit into the narrow parameters I formerly used to define the world. Anything I say about the Sierra will sound like a cliche. This is to be expected: great things resist description. These ranges are a high kingdom of stone and sky, a self contained nation of frozen lakes and ice glazed peaks. It feels like I have disappeared completely into another world, nothing else exists outside these walls.
My mileage has been reduced from about 25 miles per day to about 15 per day. This is a result of steeper and longer climbs, as well as the lack of oxygen at these high altitudes. Struggling uphill, each step is puncuated by a shortness of breath, as if I were sucking through a thin straw. The benefit to a slower pace is that it allows me more time to absorb this place.
Tomorrow we begin to cross a series of snow covered passes, each one a gateway to another matrix of peaks and rivers, new drainages, new ranges. These passes are the most dangerous and challenging aspect of the Sequoia/King's Canyon region. They are said to be high and steep.
This year, they are going to be especially snowbound. Everyone has warned us to stay away, let the snow melt and return later in the year. We are opting otherwise. My imagination has painted a
treacherous picture in my mind but my legs and lungs feel strong enough to charge the precipices.
No comments:
Post a Comment