Skip to main content

Sierra's 2017 - Part Two

My reading friend, as you enjoy my Sierra blog posts, by now I’m sure you get the impression that I’m obsessed with age. And maybe I am. Now that I’m on the north side of 60 honestly, I find it difficult to do what seemed so effortless just 10 years ago.

Committing to an annual Wilderness Mountain Adventure is my way of reminding myself that daily activity, regular exercise, stretching your imagination, proper diet, and a positive approach to living are what allow me to live life to the fullest. 

As Zig Ziglar would say, “You don’t pay the price for good health, you enjoy the benefits of good heath.” So, when I see someone older than me, (older than me, you understand, is 10-15 years my senior) engaged in the same challenging activities it gives me hope that you and I will be exploring life’s mysteries well into our 80s and beyond, God willing. So, let’s get to Part Two of this years adventure.

We left our heroes kicked back gazing into a starlit black velvet sky watching the Milky Way appear with millions of tiny twinkling lights above. The temperature was dropping quickly now.

“I’m turning in for the night.” Thinking, the warmest place for me right now was the comfort of my down sleeping bag, away from the wind, in my tent.

Those of you that know me well, know that I’m an early riser. About 4:45 am. I start pulling clothes into my sleeping bag to warm them before leaping into the morning frost. It was still dark, (about 36 degrees) the moon had risen in the east, illuminating the landscape, the skies crystal clear. You could see Orion's belt and a multitude of Constellations.

We have a tradition during these Mountain adventures. Our goal is to capture the golden glow of “first light” as it creeps down the peaks. In September, in California, this happens around 6:30 am. To my surprise, I watched daylight come without fire on the peaks. That’s odd, I thought. Looking at my Topo Map I realized that our campsite on Upper Lamarck Lake was nestled behind a much higher range of the Sierra’s and the Sun was still hidden behind that horizon.

So, I decided to carefully traverse the lake to another vantage point. For those not familiar with high elevation terrain, this means bounding between very large boulders, paying close attention to each step, or you  end up in a freezing cold lake. It was about 6:40 am, by then. So, when I stopped and looked up suddenly, very unexpectedly, the mountain began to glow! No creeping down the peaks, just POW there it was - Fantastic!

Now, the best part of having a base camp is exploring the Sierra’s without a 35-40 pound pack. It’s also a huge advantage when your backpacking partner is a seasoned Mountaineer and Geologist. So, with a small fanny pack, the 10 essentials, lunch, water, and our hiking poles we set off to explore an area North West of our camp, the Wonder Lakes (click the link to see Google maps location).

According to the map, this area was about one mile from our campsite, no problem, right . . . wrong. Day hikes are ‘off trail” adventures where very few venture. The challenge is to carefully pick your way UP and Down sheer cliffs; over huge boulders, getting trapped in a crevasse formed by an ancient glacier, working your way to a higher elevations, exploring verdant hidden meadows, and to our surprise discovering 10 beautifully hidden waterfalls not visible from the trails.

What an epic hike!

“Let’s go up just one more level,” Brendan would say after conquering a waterfall.

Apprehensively, “I don’t know, How do we get back to our camp from here, I’m exhausted?”

“No problem, we’ll drop down to Lower Lamarck Lake and take the trail back to our campsite.”

“Are you sure that’s the best way?”

Sounds easy enough, well, by the time we get back to camp it’s five hours later and my FitBit had recorded over seven miles of hiking. Needless to say I was beat.

Well, as you probably surmised by now we made it home. 

Today, as I reflect on this years Sierra adventure I’m reminded once again of natures potential; exquisite solitude, exhilarating experiences, a beautiful companion, the delight of discovery, yet contrast with the harsh reality of survival.

As John Muir so eloquently stated, “Take a course in good water and air; and in the eternal youth of Nature you may renew your own. Go quietly, alone; no harm will befall you.”

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

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...

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...

Chasing 70

In this episode,  Chasing 70: A Respectful Negotiation with Gravity They say golf is a game of misses. If that’s true, my first round of the year at Rancho Carlsbad was a masterclass in missing efficiently . After a four-month hiatus—during which my golf clubs quietly evolved into a self-sustaining garage ecosystem—Lori and I returned to our local par-three proving ground. Rancho Carlsbad is a par-54, just 1,983 yards long. That sounds forgiving until it exposes every weakness you’ve been politely ignoring during the off-season. I finished with a 78. In most contexts, 78 is respectable. On a par-54, it means I spent a fair amount of time “getting my steps in.” But here’s the real motivation: I turn 70 this August. As a core principle of my Great Un-Working Lifestyle, I’m putting it in writing: I want to shoot my age by my birthday. The Bald-Headed Man Course Around here, we have a nickname for Rancho Carlsbad. We call it the Bald-Headed Man Course. First, because there are no woods...

Stop Buying Rory’s Ball

⛳️  In this episode, why your Ego is costing you 5 strokes a round. I spent last weekend watching the Pebble Beach Pro-Am from the comfort of my La-Z-Boy recliner. It’s a beautiful spectacle. The cliffs, the ocean, the guys whose swing speeds sound like a fighter jet breaking the sound barrier. And during every commercial break, a very serious voiceover tells me that to play like a pro, I need to buy the ball the pros play. They make a compelling argument. They show slick slow-motion footage of a golf ball compressing against a clubface like a stress ball in a vise grip, then exploding down the fairway. Here is the uncomfortable truth that gravity whispered in my ear somewhere around my 65th birthday: I’m not Rory McIlroy. And if you are reading this, statistically speaking, neither are you. The Physics of the  Squish When a pro hits a “Tour-level” ball, they swing upwards of 115+ mph (Rory 123 mph). They possess the violence necessary to squish that incredibly hard little sph...