Skip to main content

Sierra Reflections 2017

“Good morning - how far are you going up the trail,” was the question I asked a lone hiker.

“Oh, she paused, I’m just out for a stroll.”

“Brendan, did you see that woman hiking alone way up here?”

“I did, that was probably the oldest person I’ve ever seen hiking these mountains.”

“What do you think, 83 maybe 84 years old?”

Incredible, I thought to myself, pausing to reflect, at how physically demanding the past few days of climbing switchbacks, scaling boulders, squatting lakeside to filter water, and simply doing the daily chores it takes to wilderness backpack in the Eastern Sierra’s.

Owens Valley
It was early Friday morning, our forth day in the Sierras, headed home. This octogenarian had climbed over 600 feet of switchbacks to a dramatic view of the Owens Valley, near Bishop CA., destination, Grass Lake.

It was day three of our 2017 Sierra adventure. Finally accumulated to the elevation of over 11,000 feet Brendan Laurs, and I were descending to the trailhead at North Lake after spending two nights at Upper Lamarck Lake  in the Sierra’s near Bishop California.

This year we had finally arranged to go mid-week. It was Tuesday, Sept. 12, 2017 when we arrived at our first overnight High Sierra destination, Parchers Resort.

“You guys are in Cabin five," said our host, at Parchers, as he handed us the key. "It’s a brand new cabin, we had over 20 feet of snow here last winter and had to replace two cabins due to the old ones collapsing.”

“We took a big hit last winter, our kitchen also collapsed and we’re in the middle of remodeling it now. So, we apologize, there are no breakfasts until that remodel is complete.”

“Thanks,” and we walked up to our cabin.

“Wow! This is really nice,” as we entered. Beautifully done, hardwood floors, two bedrooms with bunk beds to sleep four campers, full kitchen, bathroom, full shower, and a front porch to sit and enjoy the sounds of Bishop Creek as it gurgles by.

The next morning we separate our gear, weigh our packs to balance the load, check out, and drive up to North Lake Campground trailhead (9,350 ft.) to begin our trek up the mountain.

“This trail is not very long (about three miles) but lot’s of climbing, said Brendan. Shouldn’t be too bad.”

It was about 9:45 am when we began our ascent. The first 30 minutes the weight of the backpack was uncomfortable, you stop many times just to catch your breath in the high elevation, but once you’ve warmed up and get into a rhythm you are absorbed in the beauty of nature all around you. It’s late summer and the Aspens are just beginning to turn a golden color, the wildflowers still in bloom from the summer rains, the air smells so fresh and clean. Ahh, the magic of the mountains . . . 

The weather was ideal for climbing, cool temperatures, clear blue skies spotted with puffy white clouds. Our hike took us to the end of the Lamarck Trail, an elevation of 10,918 feet. However, getting to our campsite was no easy task. The huge rock formations surrounding the lake formed vertical monoliths. We scaled a ridge then slid down it’s backside to an epic spot with a western view of the lake and Mount Lamarck rising over 13,417 feet. It was about 2:00 pm.

“Four hours, that wasn’t bad at all. We saw, what, three people during our hike? This is great!"

We pitched camp and it began to rain. A gentle rain that cooled the valley. Temperatures began to drop. We would experience 36 degrees that night. However, the skies cleared, we gazed into a starlit black velvet sky watching the Milky Way appear with millions of tiny twinkling lights. It was perfect.

What would the morning bring? We could only imagine . . . 

Click here for Part Two

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

A Mother’s Day Reflection

With Mother’s Day here and the world bustling with cards, brunches, and busy schedules, I find myself reflecting on something a bit simpler: taking a moment to remember the person who helped shape my earliest sense of home. Mauricette Elaine (Bontemps) Ball. My Mom. We arrived in Cuba after leaving La Rochelle, France, in 1959—a transition whose enormity I only fully appreciate now. My mother, barely in her mid-twenties, stepped into Midwestern life with remarkable courage. Her smile could warm the coldest Illinois morning, and her hugs lingered long after she let go—quiet reminders that you were deeply loved. Born February 16, 1934, the third of four children, she grew up in Nazi-occupied La Rochelle. As kids, we listened wide-eyed to stories of soldiers patrolling her streets and fear shadowing everyday life. Yet she carried none of that darkness forward. What endured was resilience and an unwavering devotion to family—qualities she carried across the Atlantic and planted firmly in C...

That Fateful Four-Letter Word

In this episode, A Masterclass in Efficiency. For nearly four months, the western border of our property has stood as a living monument to determination, dubious planning, and forensic-level lumber acquisition. Since February, our neighbor Steve has been conducting what can only be described as a masterclass in deliberate calculation. This was never going to be one of those slick home-improvement shows where a cheerful pair of men installs a fence between commercial breaks, sipping lemonade. No. This was real life in retirement. We scaled the vertical wilderness of our hillside. We mixed concrete with the precision of medieval alchemists. We bled, we sweated, and we fought hand-to-hand with a buried tree stump that had the structural integrity of a Cold War bunker. By this week—May 16th, for those keeping score—the glorious end was finally within reach. The fence stood proudly, the line was straight, and victory practically hummed in the air. Only one major task remained: installing t...

Truth for Sale

This episode is inspired  by Elton John & Bernie Taupin On Memorial Day, I took my first bike ride  since the accident , seeking proof that my legs, lungs, and nerves still remembered the road. The morning air carried that familiar Southern California mix of ocean haze, exhaust, eucalyptus, and sun-baked asphalt. My tires hummed across pavement I’ve ridden for years. Somewhere between the steady click of the chain and the rhythm of my breathing, Elton John and Bernie Taupin’s The Captain and the Kid found its way into my ears. There’s a strange kind of magic when the cadence of a ride syncs perfectly with a song you know by heart. Suddenly, the music and lyrics stop being background noise and become a lens. And through that lens, the road started talking. I've been cycling on this road some, Can't help feeling I've been showing my friends around. I've seen it grow from next to nothing, To a giant eatin’ up our town. Called up the tealeaves and the tarots, Asked the...

The Giants We Chase

In this episode, The Gleam Within We grow up steeped in fairy tales and grand mythologies. From a young age, we are taught to scan the horizon for the hero—the knight, the savior, the titan who will arrive to make sense of the world. We marvel at the mountains' beauty and nature's majesty, yet, as the old wisdom goes, "we pass over the mystery of ourselves without a single thought." I remember being the little guy from a small town in rural Illinois, looking up at the world and seeing only Giants. I would listen to Earl Nightingale’s Our Changing World broadcasts, mesmerized by the towering figures of success and intellect he described. When you feel small, you naturally seek out those Giants for a glimpse of their light—hoping some of it might rub off on you, preferably without having to do whatever it was they did to earn it. In 1985, while I was earning my G.G. credential, I met Richard T. Liddicoat, the Patriarch of GIA. To everyone in the industry, he was the Fat...