Large granules of warm sugar embedded in a Belgium waffle dissolved in my mouth, as I took the first bite of my annual summer road trip. I spent the next good while washing it down with a tall, black Lone Pine Coffee. Usually, such a treat would cap a long morning of skiing or cycling, but today, it served to fuel a long drive south, the first leg of a highly anticipated itinerary. For the last three years, Idaho served as my back country gateway for my trips, but this year, I had my sights set on the untapped Northern California wilderness. To top the trip, I'd finish up in Burbank where, serendipitously, my parents would be staying with my brother for the following week. With such company to look forward to, the brief moments of hollow solitude from last year would not echo through the sounding of this year's voyage.
My paper mug empty, I drove along an arrow-straight section of highway 97 through the wide open wilderness spaces east of Crater Lake. For the next hour, the display on my car window screens resembled the technique old cartoons used to give the illusion of movement, with backgrounds that stitched together a short panorama that scrolled in repeating fashion behind the subject. Drivers could hardly tell they were making progress apart from the steady climb of the numbers on mile marker posts.
A well-fed raven sat atop a barren tree among the evergreen lush. It was especially prominent as the rest of the tree was especially bare, like the last piece of a chewed tootsie roll sat on the end of a pop stick. Had I started a wild bird bingo card, this would be the first of many successful sightings from a diverse list.
Highway ninety-seven at last bowed downward and to the right as it deliberated as to the best spot to cross the upcoming creek. On the other side stood an old art deco style motel sign with a huge red arrow that, if lit at night, would serve an effective lure to the weary travel, but in the day, it’s sun-dried colors made it look like it belonged on the front of an antique shop. I cast my eyes in the direction of the arrow and only a few sparse shacks between the spruce could be seen. Perhaps the sign was just an antique, telling a piece of the 1920’s story, the era from which it was constructed, but nothing more.
The topography quickly changed as the vast Klamath Lake at last came into view, the road nestling closely onto its eastern bank. I noticed that the railroad as well drew toward the lake, eventually crossing the road, and taking up its rightful place as the most proximate avenue of conveyance by the water. Lake, rail, road. More romantic that way. A telegraph line accompanied the rail for as long as I drove near it, all the way down to the California boarder. The type of line you only see flanking railroad—T-shaped and never quite standing straight. The poles cast a similar silhouette as a row of kindergartners making vain attempts at staying in line, looking this way, that and behind, but all holding onto a rope at hip height. Maybe that's what happens when you're planted so close to earthshaking Pacific Union vehicles and perhaps haven’t been maintained since 1939.
Turning off 97, I aimed my car at a forgotten town called Montegue, CA. A fat bald eagle briefly noticed my turning, before reorienting on whatever it is eagles look at when their stomachs are full. I wondered if Montegue would be one of those small towns that, when it seeds were planted, found fertile, but superficial soil, blossoming into a convenient crossroads of farm land, giving life to a small but tightly knit community, but fading as its thin layer of humus was never refertilized, leaving faded store fronts where only the Post Office, Fire Station, and fuel stop hosted the employed.
I pulled up and parked under a rare spot of shade. My short stroll over to the Cortright Market & Deli...and gas station...and restaurant...and community center...and hotel for all I knew...confirmed my wonderings. With riding supplies in hand, I walked back to the car to start prepping to explore a new gravel route I'd found online and loaded into my gps for turn-by-turn directions, but not before a well-bread, speckle-coated herding dog eyeballed me walking across the double railroad track crossing, flicking its ears to keep the flies away.
I unloaded my Canyon Grail CF SL out of the hatchback as an archer carefully and deliberately reaches into his quiver before taking aim. I set my tires to road.
The tradeoff for the conveniences of civilization is the retreat of solitude. In three hours of riding, I might have seen four total cars on the road. If I had a mechanical, it was all on me to take care of. There's something both freeing and terrifying about that; I have the power both to self sustain my adventure...and to botch it.
My only company today was bounding along a barbed wire fence at 17, 18, 19 miles an hour with little effort, when it heard my WTB Riddler 44mm tubeless tires approaching its domain. It likely heard me far sooner than I saw it, as the hare had ears so big stuck to the top of its head, it's an open question as to whether it would have taken flight had he angled them parallel to the ground.
A few more birds of prey checked off the bingo card, and I was re-approaching Montegue about 50 miles later. My drive train was starting to gasp for fresh lubricant and my water supply had been drained about ten miles back; the camelbak and 24 ounce water bottle stood no chance against the 95 degree heat. Looping back into the Cortright, I grabbed a Powerade, protein drink, and an ice cold Coke in a glass bottle (more romantic that way). All three sat as empty trash on my floorboard maybe fifteen minutes later while I found my way to I-5, heading south again toward Mt Shasta and my next challenge.
***
My Garmin said, "01:24." Too early to rise, but I was tempted to start anyway.
An hour and thirty-six minutes later, it was not too early. It was time.
Like a backcountry butler, I'd prepped my day bag the night before and had my shoes and clothes laying next to my bright orange Nemo sleeping pad in a way that I could easily find them in the pitch of the Tuesday predawn. I strapped my upgraded headlamp on and illuminated its beam, facing toward the exit of my tent. Had there not been a reflection off the vestibule flap, I wouldn't have known the thing was lit, it's LED flare swallowed completely by the black hole of the wilderness.
In ten minutes, I'd start the climb from the Clear Creek Trailhead.
Last night, I checked in with a local outfitter. I got an earful about how my originally planned route was a no-go due to some recently fallen boulders. Though they were quick to qualify that advice with, "well, we can't tell you what to do." No, by all means. That's why I asked. So they directed me to Clear Creek, and told me that with my equipment—Yak Trax and trekking poles—I should be fine. It occurred to me that I failed to pack any cold weather equipment so I purchased a nice mid-weight hiking hoodie which did the job fine. In the recent heat of the desert I call home, it's hard to imagine needing to solve the puzzle of wind chill.
Before leaving town, I swung by a watering hole for a salty lamb burger and a summer seasonal. They both went down well along with nearly half a gallon of water. I would need it.
The well-pined forest was silent apart from my foot falls. Little underbrush divided the mighty sequoias and spruces. I don’t think this area had ever been logged, thus the chances for smaller plants to capture the stolen sunlight was much smaller. It seemed these trees were in a forever competition to see who could set the height of the forest ceiling the fastest, while all being stopped short at the ceiling of shared genes, making a treetop topography a close analogue to the earth which held the roots.
A flash of motion to my periphery. Were my rods and cones playing tricks on me? What sort of flickering phantom was this? One hungry for insects, it turns out. I saw the furry creature enjoy a two course meal midair, with fine edged flicks and twists of its aerial acrobatics. The native of the night zoomed around my little beam two more times before departing back to its layer, like some tiny wraith warning me as I was entering its wood.
Since I didn’t have a printed map on me, I periodically checked my Garmin, which has a map feature, to keep up on how long I’d been on the move, partly to make sure I was headed the right way, partially to give me a better idea of what sort of care my body would need. Such puzzles present themselves with an extra layer of difficulty when one is hiking above ten thousand feet.
The first hour vanished and I could now see the full portrait of the climb ahead, making my way through a small valley which served some as a base camp, a little over two miles from the trailhead. The night sky was immaculate as the day it was created, the Milky Way providing nourishment to still waking eyes. I spotted two peculiar looking stars ahead of me, seeming to flicker all the way on and all the way off, as if they were looking this way and that. Had it not been for the fact that these stars appeared below the horizon of Shasta herself, they would be rather peculiar looking indeed. I wondered if the star on my head presented to them the same twinkle.
Nearly another hour later and what turned out to be the biggest puzzle of the day lay in front of me, an ice field of forever snow that probably fell years ago and never bothered to fully thaw. I put on my Trax and surveyed my options. One: climb straight up to the next closest exposed piece of earth up the hill. Two: traverse laterally, reducing my time on the field to as little as possible but risk going slightly off course. The primary trail of course was now buried. There were signs that climbers had taken both options. I went for One first, but was not confident enough in my shoe spikes to hold me stuck to that slip. If something went wrong and I fell, let’s just say, the risk was not worth the reward. Two it was. After a few very tentative steps, I gained confidence the closer I got to the other side. My equipment seemed to be doing its job.
Once there, I took the Trax back off and proceeded upward again. I was feeling okay about the decision, though some doubt had been cast on my choice. The trail now was nothing but scree, a material somewhere between sand and sawdust. With every step forward, your foot slide almost half a step back. This was my life for about the next 90 minutes, making my way up grades pushing 25-30%, wind picking up now, and the 10k mark coming and going. By now, I was about 3.5 hours into the effort and sooner than expected, I saw that majestic orange disc pop just its crest above the earth curve. Sooner because I hadn’t realized it was already 6, not that the planet’s rotational velocity had shifted. I timed the start of my hike hoping to be at or near the top by the time the sun came up. It was a very rough calculation. The stars ahead of me apparently planned better by leaving closer to midnight.
I had a spot on my right foot that was starting to get irritated with this erratic effort. I stopped to take my shoes of and rub the pain away, a pain I hadn’t felt in that foot for a long time, but not a pain that’s impossible to deal with. Giving the area a massage with a lumpy rock actually does the trick. Inverting the shoe toward the ground, a collection of ground pumice rock showered to the earth.
I was about to get up to continue the trek but I just had one other thing I needed to take from my pack. The day bag is not huge and for today, I decided to bring my Jetboil and camping pour over sashes to hopefully make coffee at the top as I’d done on Diamond Peak. I looped it around a strap on the outside which served to both carry the device as well as keep a tighter close on the whole pack. For a moment, time came to a dead stop. The sun paused its ascent as we both looked slack jawed on at what was happening. As I went to shut my pack, the clip hanging open which otherwise held the boiler in place, let it go. My Jetboil was now making its way back to my starting point. I was helpless to do anything but look on and pray…and swear.
But almost as soon as it had started its slide, the scree-laden earth provided a lot of dampening in its acceleration and it came to a rest just a few feet away. For a moment, I was more awe-struck by the bigness of God’s grace by that stoppage than by the mountain I was now sitting on.
With the sun now back in motion, I continued on, the west wind ever increasing in its magnitude.
Most mountain ascents have sections which feature a more or less steady grade and which you can sort of chunk up in your mind. Don’t worry about the summit, worry about that next big rock up ahead. I was on a portion now over 11,000 feet above sea level and I could tell my legs and lungs were really getting pushed. I’d had less than three good hours of sleep last night and I likely started the day dehydrated. I spotted an orange rock much more prominent than the others around it. It looked like as good a milestone as any, and looked like from that vantage point, one could get a better assessment of what’s ahead. I took off my shoes, one by one, to let more pumice pebbles shower out, laced them back on, and continued. About 10 steps at a time.
Another hour passed, and this time not as quickly as the first, before I finally made it to that point. Objects in mirror are much further away than they appear. Knowing the summit was about 14k, I was hoping my Garmin’s barometer was a little off today. It wouldn’t be the first time, but knowing how these climbs go, there’s usually a false summit. I knew the truth before I saw it for myself. I laid back against the formation, guarded from the now gale-force winds, and got my Jetboil going.
My Garmin said, “12,712 feet.” Too early to call it a summit, but I was tempted to go back anyway.
My coffee was cooling as fast as I was, and I needed to make a decision. This milestone had revealed the true summit to my sight, and I knew at this point how much effort another 1,200 feet would take. It looked like it would involve some hand-over-hand climbing too, extending the time to summit even further.
Over my competitive racing career, I’ve come to better understandings of the difference between tiredness and fatigue. The former, a state that mental toughness and some good drink and calories can repair. The latter, a state where the brain’s signals to stop really shouldn’t be disregarded, especially when one is alone and especially when the distance between here and help is huge. If you want to travel fast, travel alone. If you want to travel far, travel together.
Another survey taken and another calculation made. I needed to call it a day.
The wind was still ripping. I suspected that it never ceases in these parts. Each step downward on the little dunes, my rubber lugs kicked up puffs of sediment and dust. The exhalations of the sky picked it up so quickly that it formed counter trails of fine mountain particulates thrust into the jet stream to land probably several states away. I like to think, eventually, finding rest in a kid’s sandbox.
But not long after the descent started did I discover I had missed out on a not insignificant amount of switch back trail which would had significantly decreased the effort of that last section. Where I had been scree scrambling, I would have just been hiking, but the snow field diverted my course just enough that I missed it.
Speaking of that snow field, I was now on the opposite side after having taken that alternate (really primary) route, and faced a much larger puzzle than the one before. The white lands bore signs of other hikers having somehow glissaded the entire length from tippy top to bottom below, surely at least a full mile. I surmised it must have been done much later in the day when the snow has become so soft, the task of slowing oneself bears little risk of breaking bones and losing control, sending one sliding down the snow faster than Chevy Chase on that scene in Christmas Vacation. Under the nine a.m. sun, no such snow texture was to be found.
One: I could attempt to glissade and collapse my trekking poles into foot-long spears, using them carefully as arrest devices to keep my speed from getting too high. Two: try One first and see what happens. I still need to think this through.
I began my first slide attempt and it was immediately apparent that this idea needed to die a rapid and merciless death. After just a minute into the effort, I’d already taken a rash of skin off the outer sides of both shines and scraped up the insides of my thumbs. This was not soft snow. I was far enough down at this point, though, that I was committed to this route. Okay, don’t panic. One last puzzle piece, and then I’m home free.
I saw marks in the snow where others had been before, climbing up with axes and crampons from the spot I’d been standing several hours ago, before the sun had risen. Such evidence doesn’t last long in the capricious surface so I had to look closely to see where their feet had gripped into the sides. I put my Trax back on and decided to climb exactly the same way they did, except in the reverse direction. I would face down between my legs with my belly toward the mountain. Gaining confidence in each step, slowly by slowly, I successfully competed the task, triceps and thighs shaking like mad by the time my feet found rock again.
Another 45 minutes of hiking downward, I spotted five groups of gifted youngsters just getting their day started. This must have been the JH Ranch group that was sharing the campsite the night before. I didn’t know much about the organization, just that some of my southern cousins had taken very similar trips to California a few years ago. They expeditioned on this bright Monday morning in groups of 10 as the permits allow, all spaced apart by two or three minutes. I’d always worn my trusty UnderArmour Auburn shirt when out on adventures like these in hopes I’d find someone in these remote parts familiar with my roots. At last, the colors were recognized, not by one in fifty, but by at least one in all five groups.
Life is not a puzzle to solve, but a mystery to be embraced.
- * *
The lady behind the counter handed me an assortment of cheap tacos from Johnny Boy’s Taco, or whatever it was called. I suspect if I’ve got the name wrong here, there’s some taco shop in the Reno area that bears this moniker anyhow. They seemed to be everywhere, as numerous and dense as the sagebrushes along the last two hundred miles of desert driving.
On my way down Mt. Shasta, I hatched one of the most brilliant ideas I think I’d ever had: get a hotel room tonight in Truckee instead of camping again. My original itinerary had me pitching my tent just 80 miles south of that excursion, but as with any good trip, timelines are negotiable. In between bites of fish, pork, and chicken tacos, I relayed my booking request with an agent for the Best Western and in no time, I had a room set. I was most excited for the shower.
Gosh, was this still the same day as the mountain? Completing that hike, returning to the quiet trailhead, a medium-sized doe regarded me with a start. Swiftly adjusting to being in human company, it looked at me expectantly, like it was awaiting a treat I’d found on the slopes.
I took off my pack, and me and my two-day outdoor stank laid down on my sleeping mat, tent and all left as it was eight hours ago. Tired but wired, I lay wondering if I’d sleep off the rest of the day or whether sleep wound find my eyes at all. Face up, eyes closed, my waking thoughts were promptly drowned by dreamy thoughts. I came to less than an hour later, after what was less a nap and more a delirium tremens. It was enough to refresh my mind to execute my new highly anticipated plan of spending extra time in the Tahoe area.
I packed my tent, and while making an attempt to reorganize my double stuffed hatchback, a Summer Tanager, bright as a ripe sunflower, flew a few carefree circles around my head bidding me ado. I made my ginger way back down three miles of unimproved dirt road in my Ford—her suspension was as tired as mine at this point—took a left on 89, and three hours later, placed my taco order.
Highway 80 westbound is the main artery connecting the Great Basin with the Sierra Nevada’s. I was within a half hour of Truckee which was hard to believe as I was presently surrounded by 100 degree desert sun and cactuses and casinos. The highway climbed and made a surprising transition, like stepping off river rock onto fresh sod, after just a single bend around a foothill. In a breath, I was over 5000 feet above sea level and en route to one of the jewels of the state.
Eight dense hours of sleep later, I woke up surprisingly early in my hotel room. I don’t remember many dreams from that night. I was the first to the hotel breakfast lounge and refueled on some sterno-heated eggs, sausage and a bowl of fruit salad, sipping on espresso from the push button machine. It got the job done.
Half an hour after that, I was on my bike for a little tour of the area. I got in kinda late the night before and hadn’t had a chance—or the energy—to see much of the town. The first few turns of the crank took some effort. Many cobwebs still hung between my lower extremity sinews.
I headed toward a spot on the map that looked like the roads might be gravel, but hadn’t as meticulously planned the route as the one in Montegue. I didn’t have grand designs on a 50 miler today, just a little “coffee shop” type ride. Not long after I started, I spotted a promising looking trailhead, took it, and prime Truckee forest filled my whole vision, my legs forgetting their tiredness, now replaced by a mile high enthusiasm.
After about 75 minutes of exploring some properly majestic backroads south of town, I finished the ride cruising through a neighborhood that hosted mountain homes that, in my mind, aren’t far off of the place He goes ahead to prepare for me. It’s a good thing I didn’t find myself in a timeshare pitch meeting immediately after the ride, or…well…maybe that’s not such a bad idea.
I made my way to downtown Truckee in search of more food. I was mostly after a place with good coffee to make up for the hotel coffee I had earlier. I found a breakfast diner and ordered the Wagon Trail Special. Here’s the thing about these diners. There are probably ten, twenty thousand of them in this country. They all have great reviews online, but every last one of them is exactly the same. The food consists of the same, unseasoned over easy eggs, toast, sausage patty, and pancakes. The coffee is always served out of one of those Bunn machines, with those black stained pitchers, and the waitress that pours it has been chain smoking for the last thirty years. The coffee is never good. It is exactly the average, baseline American breakfast. You can’t tell me these are “OMG! the best pancakes you’ll ever have!” They all use the same mix and the same corn-based syrup. And everyone loves it. I think everyone just loves when other people cook them breakfast foods. That’s what the rave is about. That, at least, I can appreciate.
After second coffee, second breakfast, third coffee (I finally found some good espresso—I know you were concerned)…and then a biscotti for good measure, I made my way to Donner Lake State Park that featured a visitor center-museum combo and a mountain lake.
I’d first heard of the story of the Donner Party way back in AP US History taught by one Ed Draveky at Grissom High School. Of all the teachers I had in grade school, Mr. Draveky and his style of teaching history still remains one of the more prominently fond memories I had of that era. And of the stories he told, The Donner Party Tragedy stood out the most. So, in part, the trip over there was something of an homage to that time. But first, the lake.
I parked and walked along a well groomed trail that followed the water. A blue and white sign with an arrow that said, “BOAT RENTALS,” beckoned me. An hour for a kayak for $20 was a no brainer. I launched off the tiny beach moments later. I kayaked by a Common Merganser fishing for its lunch, swapping time between scanning the surface and scuba diving to the bottom. The white-red-brown creature had a likeness of a duck but with the head of a swordfish.
After about a half hour paddling against the wind, I pause to soak everything in. A train up on a forested cliff face charted its course through an engineered avenue carved out of the mountain in 1867. The scene was just perfect, like an image of one of those models that raptured my attention at the Iowa State Fair when I was 13. Funny how when we see a replica of a nature scene, as in a painting or model train display, and we want to comment on its craftsmanship, we say it looks like the real thing. But when we see a gorgeous, picturesque vista, we say it looks like the model. I guess either way, we’re trying to emphasize the handiwork of its creator.
When my hour was up, I found a serene spot on the shore to sit and snack on some plantain chips and do my best to stop thought, to just observe. There were half a dozen sailboats out today, all with the same blue and white stripes, I’m guessing to indicate their ownership to another rental service. I spotted a pair of landlubbers struggling to aright their vessel which had just fallen over in the face of a gust. It looked like it took surprisingly little effort to correct the mast; just apply some body weight onto on side and up it stood. Now, the matter of getting the human cargo back on board was another task. One-two-THREE! In their effort get back on, the uneven weight of both of them swim-crawling back on the same side, sent the white-blue sail parallel to the water again.
A young girl was trying her hand at stand up paddle boarding. Her legs held her up like a new born fawn's and she struggled to get it right. Abandoning the effort, she settled for floating around on her knees and playing with the tether keeping her connected to land.
I was mostly dry by the time I walked up to the museum. There was a sign displaying guided tour times. 11:00, 12:00, 1:00. I looked at my watch. 1:48. Too bad. Wait, just above the printout was a handwritten sign that said, “Special Tour Time Today: 2:00.” Well, howdy doodie.
Our guide was a retired high school history teacher who volunteered during the summers to give tours. His enthusiasm alone made the next hour one of my favorites I spent in the area. The tour ended by a large boulder with an iron plaque encrusted about seven feet off the ground, displaying the some 47 names of all those who perished in the 1846 attempt to make it over this pass to the promise of life in California. The boulder served as one of the four walls of a cabin the survivors used to winter. The ground I stood once supported 19th century pioneers who left their homes and navigated on foot from Independence, Missouri to end up here about 1700 miles later, all on foot. I stood in that spot for an extra beat to take it in.
I passed the rest of that evening posted up in an upscale grocery store doing some writing, reading, and eating food from the hot bar.
Speaking of pilgrimages, Squaw Valley was just a few miles down the road. It was another one of my must sees while I was here. Most know it as the site of the 1960 Winter Olympics. I know it as the start of the Western States 100 Mile Endurance Run, one of the most legendary ultras in the world, certainly in North America. Walking around the mountain village, I saw plenty of indicators of the Olympic heritage but not a thing about Western States. I couldn’t even find the start line, but walked past a spot I suspected was it. I got some gelato after circling around the mountain village and went back to that spot, looked up pictures of the starting line, and sure enough, that was it. I chewed on a piece of fresh mint leaf from my tiny spoon, and thought, maybe that’s just perfectly appropriate. Ultras have never been about flash and glamor. The spot of the starting line, which hosted this year’s event less than two months ago, bore nothing significant at all to indicate that some of the greatest endurance athletes on earth have trod this ground.
Only those who have eyes to see do.
I crawled out of my tent at Goose Meadows Camp Ground the next morning, not far from the village, and made coffee with my Jetboil, using some camping-style pour over pouches I bought at REI. Last summer, a cousin of mine gave me a similar camping coffee packet which was nothing but a tea bag with grounds in it, almost exactly the same apparatus as what I was using, but closed on one end. Those proved not to be terribly popular, as I haven’t seen them anywhere on store shelves since. In a camping setting, tea bagging coffee makes a ton of sense. But since it resembles tea and not coffee it was rejected. It’s like if you’ve been eating tacos all your life, and someone hands you a taco, except it’s tortilla wraps around the whole thing instead of leaving the top exposed—it becomes crisis. Heresy! Tacos must be open on one end or else it’s a whole other thing, despite the ingredients being the same. How many good ideas have been confused for bad ones just because the timing was off?
After tearing down camp, I found a cafe on the shore of Lake Tahoe, and I drank in my first sight of the 1,600 foot valley lake. A slice of lemon poppyseed loaf later, and I was on my bike, making my way up the hillside in search of a lookout.
I found a fire road in short order, passing a sign reading, “unsuitable for private vehicles” which meant I was on the right track. In no time at all, I crossed the board of the Burton Creek State Park, featuring a trail network that felt tailor-made for a gravel bike—a mix of semi-technical single and double track that eventually made its way up to the Tahoe Rim Trail. I found a view point overlooking the entire lake. This was quickly becoming one of the top three most scenic rides I’ve ever done.
Another 45 minutes later, I found Mt Watson Road, which provided a brief paved reprieve from the trail, and took it up to another fire road that connected back up toward Truckee. I made a three mile descent before finding another path toward the Western States Trail and started heading west toward Squaw Valley. This portion of trail was in no hurry to get to the highway and some technical section made for some fun but dicy riding. My grip strength was challenged with how much braking I was having to do.
Eventually, I popped back out on a multipurpose trail that lined 89 and went north before starting the climb toward the ski lifts, the start of the Western States 100. If I couldn’t run it any time soon, I’d at least ride the first few miles.
This portion of snaking utility access road solidified my speculation that this four hours of pedaling today would fall in the top three all time most scenic rides. About 15 minutes into the climb, I had to stop once to let a front loader pass. Then I saw several small groups of high school football players (all wearing matching blue Nike shirts) making their way down the road after having sensibly taken the sky tram up to the top. They starting cheering me on, not expecting to see anyone coming up this enormous hillside. I quickly tried to think of something clever to say before I passed. Not knowing whether they would get my reference, I yelled over my shoulder, “Who’s gonna carry the boats!?”
The caboose of the group heard me and said, “HA! He said who’s gonna carry the boats?” A chorus of bicep flexing laughter echoed against the hill.
This was the kind of mountain climbing where there are no clear peaks, no clear endpoints where you might be able say that you’ve arrived. I passed the terminus of the sky tram and then a sign that said, “Broken Arrow,” indicating a black diamond-rated ski run. Rounding another switchback, I came to the top of another lift, and then another. At 8000 feet above see level, I could see now past the other side of the crest of this particular portion of mountain after about 1800 feet of climbing, spotting a small trail that clung to the edge of the slope, interspersed with glacial snow, and disappearing round a distant rock formation. I think that’s where the race route goes. Hell of a way to start a hundred miles of running.
After a gentle cruise back through the land of vacationers, rolling along a most agreeable multi-use trail that followed the Truckee River, I took a dip in the water, packed my things, and started another long portion of driving.
I punched in the directions for Mammoth Lake, and, initially, the route seemed a little odd. There are no direct paths from one town to another in terrain like this, and I had to trust that turning east and slightly north actually took me south faster than turning south. Driving through South Lake Tahoe, I didn’t need a “Welcome to Nevada!” sign to tell me when I had crossed state lines again. The imposing double towers of Harrah’s Palace was indication enough. I had already noticed that the charm of the north of the lake was eroding away when I passed a TJ Maxx—the commercial talons were sinking in where they still had a chance—then the mighty casinos rounded out the south shore skyline in attempts to bring themselves more glory than the natural beauty of the lake. It’s not that, as far as hotel fronts go, they were ugly structures in themselves. What I didn’t like was their arrogance. The way they were built gave off a sort of self-importance; the architecture did not give right respect to the valley as the north shore had.
Up and over another huge pass and I was on the eastern side now of the foothills as I had been driving through Reno. I double checked my navigation, past several more green pastures—which would look more and more out of place as I left the mountain air and was enveloped by desert again—and I was on to 395 south headed toward my next campsite.
The spine of California is impressively monolithic. To the right side of my car stood the hulking front range of the Sierra Nevada’s, the guardians of Stanislaus, Yosemite, and Sequoia, with its granite colored texture, accented by intermittent strips of forever snow and ancient pine. To the left, tall, but less impressive, coyote-brown desert mountains, the likes of which mark the western desert topography from Tuscan clear to Yakima.
Now and again, I would roll through towns that had sprang up around anywhere water from the mountain streams had found a home, many of which boasting two to three digit population figures on their welcome signs. The types of towns where the storefront’s indicated shop hours were by no means written in stone. Maybe it went out of business years ago and no one had since bothered to update the facade. Or maybe the proprietor was tending to a lost cow. One couldn’t be sure.
Another town and another sign. “Grizwald’s Squirrel Removal. ‘Best in Bridgeport!’” I think they confused the word “best” with “only” but glad I know someone has my back here. Perhaps they could be the same thing, anyhow. In some cases, perhaps “only” is indeed a better target than “best.”
More long miles, still flanked by the rival ridge lines.
I stopped for gas just outside another reentry point to the Golden State to take advantage of the sub five dollars a gallon price one last time—declining the invitations to part with more of my dollars with slim promises of winning big—then made my way to Mono Lake, eventually arriving at my final campground of the trip. I was quite pleased to find a somewhat remote and scenic dispersed spot that was not originally on my online map.
The dry needles in the pre-made fire circle made for enthusiastic kindling and my embers were warding off a small army of mosquitos in no time. The top log sank half an inch while the sturdier kindling sticks returned to ash and dust under the heat. The waxing gibbous cast moon shadows between redwood pine across my teal tent, an ethereal sort of feeling. With an awareness such as humans have, how would we interpret stimuli like this in the long ago? Finally laying on my mat, my brain had no trouble at all coming up with stories of what sorts of creatures lie in wait at the edge of my wilderness awareness, fangs and claws and teeth and axes.
I dreamt strangely.
* * *
After some intermittent shut eye, the new light on the east side of the trees indicated it was time to start packing up, dusting off, and moving south again.
Mammoth Lakes wasn’t much further down the road. Making my way to a highly-rated coffee shop, I half considered purchasing one of their Mammoth donuts they had on display. I could have chosen from Oreo, M&M, or Fruity Pebble encrustations had I committed $9 to the temptation. I settled for a breakfast sandwich and blueberry scone to fuel my final ride up to the Twin Lakes. The guy behind the counter had a special gift for charisma, and after just a few exchanges about where I was coming from and that I had a bike with me, you’d think we were already long friends.
Armed with a route in mind, I mounted up and in about ten minutes I started the climb along the paved multi-use path to the lakes.
To my left and right, the crown of the Sierra’s shown a special kind of glory that left me simply shaking my head that I was even allowed to be here at all, experiencing this wonder. If life here could marshal such displays, what would happen if everyone were so awed on a regular basis, living in service to such a Good? How much paradise could we realize in the here and now that we are presently squandering?
Several groups of cross country runners were out on training runs; a special summer training camp, I presume. Probably not a stretch to suppose at least a few of these athletes could be found at the Foot Locker Cross Country Championships in a couple months.
My head started to ache a little. I checked the fit of my helmet to make sure it wasn’t too tight. It wasn’t. The physical load of the last four days, poor sleep last night, and an altitude of 8,988 feet were having their effect.
Casually rolling around Lake Mary, under the shadow of the imposing Crystal Craig, I saw what looked like a single spider web strand reflecting flickering sun rays into my Rudy Project glasses. A mom was busy pulling in a brown trout much to the delight of her two children. An appetizer for later or a catch n’ release?
I found some slightly denser air as I made my way back to the car and loaded back up to start the final leg of the trip south. I got one last Flat White for the road and hopped back on 395.
The final five hours of driving provided more desert views, but as I left Mammoth, the granite mountains of the Sierra’s phased out into that ol generic brown, now matching the giants to the east. My car’s temperature gauge read “106.” I passed several civil projects and tried to imagine what sort of life one leads to be compelled by such work. Clearly, plenty had been. These parts of California boast some entropy-reversing engineering work to be truly marveled, providing veins of voltage along miles and miles of high wire. Closer and closer I came to Mojave, and a field of wind turbines met my right periphery while a field of decommissioned planes lay to my left. I think I spotted a PanAm label on one of the tails.
I got out of my car for gas and stepped into what felt like the inside of a hair dryer. This particular Kwik Stop was undergoing renovation of their main store and improvised using a connex. I can’t say I’ve ever purchased a Gatorade from a shipping container before today; the locals didn’t seem to think it any big deal.
At last, I merged onto I-5 south; Burbank was just a few exits away. Putting my car in park off Magnolia Boulevard, its side panels and wheel wells carried patches of dirt, evidence of my adventure, in shades onyx, clay, and cinnamon, whose holdout dust particles would hold long to the deeper aluminum crevasses of its underbelly. Particle stories long along for the ride.
