Skip to main content

Sierra Reflections 2015

“Do you think I’ll need my gloves?” 

“No doubt,” I said to Lori as we prepared to make the trek up the Mountain from Bishop, CA, on route 168, to the Bishop Pass trailhead at South Lake (elevation 9,620 ft).

Bishop Pass Trailhead
It was cold late October weather. 36 degrees when we parked the truck and stepped into the brisk, fresh Sierra mountain air. The golden yellow fall colors of trembling Aspens surrounded us. We never passed a single car driving the 20 miles from downtown Bishop past Parchers Resort (closed for the season) to our roadside parking.

My first thought - where is everyone? Wonder if the trailhead is closed for the season? Nah, can’t be. The parking lot was gated . . . why?

Last time I was here we couldn't find a place to park. There were bicyclists, people trout fishing Bishop Creek, and the resort was teeming with activity - this year no one. Weird!”

Undaunted, we layered our clothes, strapped on our day-packs, adjusted our hiking poles, and started up the mountain. Immediately we both gasped from the high elevation and lack of oxygen. Compared to a 40 pound wilderness backpack our day-packs were very light but the combination of the thin, cold air and climbing without acclamation to the elevation, breathing was tough.

This was our first day-hike in the Eastern Sierras this trip. The bustle of civilization had completely vanished. Not a soul in sight. The peaceful calming effect of the wind, an occasional chipmunk barking, and periodically a Stellar Jay were the only sounds besides our footfalls. Each deep breath a sensation of fresh, crisp, pine scented air. I wanted Lori to experience hiking the Wilderness trail Brendan and I had traveled less than two years before. We entered the trail at South Lake with a goal to reach an area on the Topo map identified as Timberlake Tarns.

The Bishop Pass trail rises in a series of granite benches. The trail is well maintained. Under the shade of dark clouds there was a thin layer of frost on the trees and a dusting of snow blanketing the ground. The clouds low hanging over the peaks to the east. A cold wind blowing in from the North. The climb was steady, slow going, with a series of switchbacks.

“We might get more snow. Too cold to rain.” I said. 

At 10,800 foot elevation we came upon the disk of a golden brown meadow with a succession of pristine mountain lakes (Hurd, Long, and Bull lakes). The view was spectacular. We found a spot protected from the wind, and enjoyed a snack.

“Do you feel like going further?” 

“I’m good, let’s try it,” said Lori.

We hoisted our packs and moved on. With the sun hidden behind the inky clouds for most of the day the temperatures remained cold. Surprisingly we were comfortable dressed in layers. Soon tired out, we turned round at the end of Long Lake. According to our FitBit tracker we had hiked (from the truck) close to five miles. So, we headed back.

As we approached the trail head entrance we were met by a Ranger who said, “Sorry folks, the parking lot was just paved. Would you take this side trail to Parchers Resort?”

“I’m not sure we could make it that far, we’ve already gone seven miles. Our truck is parked just down the road from the entrance.” I said.

“Ok,” said the Ranger. “Let me show you how to get around the parking lot without walking through it.”

“That would be great.”

We stumbled our way around the freshly paved lot to the road, thanked the Ranger, and headed for the truck.

That afternoon, we savored a cold beer and a delicious burger. Back to our hotel, a hot shower and a warm bed. Something we could have never done Wilderness camping.

Today, as I reflect on this years Sierra adventure I’m reminded, once again, of what John Muir so eloquently stated, “Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees.” 

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

The Endless Work of Wisdom

It always makes me smile. The moment people learn I've officially entered what I like to call the Great Un-Working (retirement), they almost immediately ask the same question: “So . . . What do you do now?" I think they're expecting me to say I'm restoring a vintage sports car, hiking the John Muir Trail, or finally becoming fluent in French.   Instead, I tell them: "I live life deliberately." That's usually the point when I get a polite nod, followed by the unmistakable look of someone wondering whether I've simply found a more sophisticated way to say, “I’m becoming a bum.” Apparently, "living deliberately" sounds suspiciously like unemployment, just better branding. The truth is, what living deliberately looks like for me right now is taking time to synthesize a lifetime of experiences into these weekly reflections. It's slowing down long enough to ask what those experiences have taught me, while keeping the door wide open to the poss...

A Tucson Typewriter Tale

One of the great joys of wandering without much of a plan is that the universe occasionally rewards your lack of organization. During my recent visit to Tucson, AZ, Robert and I were strolling through the Annex this afternoon, doing what tourists and newly minted retirees like me have elevated to an Olympic sport: meandering. The Annex is one of those places where every few steps there's another handmade candle, artisan coffee, or vintage object someone rescued from a garage sale and convinced the rest of us was always destined to become art. Then I saw something that genuinely stopped me. A young woman standing quietly behind a manual typewriter. Not a laptop designed to look like a typewriter. Not a quirky Bluetooth keyboard. An honest-to-goodness mechanical typewriter—the sort of machine that once announced every sentence to the entire office with a satisfying clack and enough force to wake nearby pigeons. With an iPhone 16 sitting in my pocket in an age when people write novels...