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.” 
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Most Popular of All Time

When Fear Becomes the Default

In this special episode, When Fear Becomes the Default. Early Sunday morning, I was cycling past a small veterans’ pocket park in San Marcos. The air was still, the streets nearly empty. On one corner stood a young woman, alone, holding a hand-painted sign that read: “Be ANGRY. ICE agents are murdering people.” I pedaled past, but the words stayed with me. I knew the context—the footage and headlines from Minneapolis the day before, already ricocheting through the country and hardening opinions. Even in the quiet of the ride, the noise followed. Two miles later, I stopped at a red light. A black car with dark windows pulled up inches from my bike. My heart jumped. My first instinct wasn’t neighbor —it was threat . I found myself bracing, scanning, and wondering if the person inside was angry, armed, or looking for trouble. Then the door opened. A well-dressed young woman stepped out, walked to the trunk, and pulled out a sign that read “Open House.” She turned, smiled brightly, and sa...
2 comments
Read more

The Language of Home: Building a Sanctuary

This episode is  for anyone trying to find their footing in a new place—whether it’s a new city, a new job, or a new country. The light in Florence, Italy, has a way of making everything feel like a Renaissance painting—the golden hue on the stone, the steady rhythm of the Arno River, and the feeling that you are walking through a history much larger than yourself. I was there to give a presentation to a class of Gemology students. I was prepared to discuss color grading and refractive indices, but not to be outed as a language tutor . Feeling very much like a guest in a storied land, a hand shot up enthusiastically. "You’re the guy on the podcasts," the young woman said, her eyes bright with recognition. "You’re the one teaching us English." I laughed nervously. If you know my flat Midwestern accent, you know the irony here. I am hardly an Oxford professor. But later, as I wandered the cobblestone streets beneath the shadow of the Duomo, the humor faded into a powe...
Post a Comment
Read more

Practiced Hands: The 50-Year Warranty

What Doc Burch Taught Me About Staying Active. We talk a lot about "life hacks" these days, but most of them don’t have a very long shelf life. Usually, they’re forgotten by the next app update. But back in 1972, I received a piece of advice that came with a 50-year warranty. It’s the reason I’m still on my bike today, still chasing a golf ball around Carlsbad, and still—mostly—in one piece. The Kick That Changed Everything It started with a literal kick in the pants. A kid at school in Cuba, Illinois, was joking around and caught me just right. By the next morning, my lower back was screaming. My mom didn’t reach for the Tylenol; she reached for her car keys. "Let’s go see Doc Burch," she said. "He’ll fix you right up." Harry E. Burch, D.C., was a fixture in Lewistown. He’d graduated from Palmer College in ’59 and had been our family’s go-to for years. He was a man of practiced hands and steady eyes. After a quick exam and an X-ray, the mood in the room s...
Post a Comment
Read more

On the Fly–Taking Flight

In this special 500th episode,  On the Fly  is moving to a new home. Here’s why—and what’s staying the same. For a very long time (since April 2012),  On the Fly  has lived on  Blogger . Blogger has been a reliable host—dependable, quiet, and never complaining when I arrived late with another half-baked idea, a guitar riff, or a story that needed a little air. It faithfully archived my thoughts, my music, and more than a decade of curiosity. But the internet has changed. It’s louder now. Flashier. More insistent. Every thought is nudged to perform. Every sentence wants to be optimized, monetized, or interrupted by something that really wants your attention right this second. I’ve been craving the opposite. So today, On the Fly is moving to Substack . If you’ve been with me for a while, you know my quiet obsession: the A rt of Seeing . I’m interested in the moments we rush past—the Aversion Trap, the discipline hidden inside a guitarist’s daily practice, t...
Post a Comment
Read more