Summer Remnants

Here, dear readers, are the best uphill walks from the Summer of 2010:

The Ragged Peak saddle, Yosemite

The stone path from San Damiano to Assisi

Memorable uphill walks naturally segue into memorable downhill walks. Ages ago my brother, Jay, and I were walking downhill from Nevada Falls in Yosemite. Primed, adolescent and full of sinewy goodness, we allowed gravity to propel us downhill at a remarkable clip. In the reverse direction, innumerable hikers puffed and strained and grunted their way uphill like poorly oiled locomotives.

One boy, a rotund, ney, a Rubinesque fellow in his mid teens with a pink, sweaty face lacquered up with sunscreen, stopped his ascent when he saw us approaching. He placed his hands on his knees and gasped imploringly in measured fashion:

"How...far...to...Nevada?"

Obviously, he was referring to the falls. However, Jay, not missing a beat and not altering his stride, replied matter-of-factly: "About 150 miles" as if the boy were referring to the state of Nevada.

The boy stared vacantly, uncertain what to make of Jay's quip. We simply continued our downhill journey, enjoying the tumbling cataracts carving through the rocky canyon beneath the trail. Moments later, though, Jay looked at me over his shoulder and smiled wryly.

"Nice one." I said.

When we reached Happy Isles I asked Jay if he thought the boy ever made it to Nevada.

"No," Jay answered. "No, I don't think so."

The United States of Vespucci

Pointing the Way

Amerigo Vespucci Range

Patagonia

Argentina

October 1st, 1969

Actually, there's no such thing as the Amerigo Vespucci Range, and I was 5 years old in 1969, and I've never been to Patagonia or Argentina (though I have visited other Spanish speaking countries, like Canada). It just sounded neater than saying I was on Hannegan Peak in North Cascade National Park on 08/25/2005, which is exactly where and when this picture was taken.

Following are some interesting facts about Amerigo Vespucci taken from Wikipedia. (Anyone from around the world can contribute to Wikipedia and edit the entries, so you can rest assured and be confident that you are getting the most reliable, historically accurate information possible):

Amerigo, for whom the Americas were named, was born in 1454 in Florence, Italy, the son of Michael and Linda Vespucci. Amerigo was an ordinary and highly unimpressive child while growing up in Tuscany. He had no more ambition than a barnacle stuck on the pilings of the Ponte Vecchio. He cared not whether his hair was parted on the left or the right. He ate only mozzarella. He feared squirrels and opera in the park. His closest friends were his three cats: Luigi, Raphaelo and Leaning Tower (Leaning Tower, a manx, had only three legs, but he was a prodigious mouser).

At the age of 13 his parents sent him to explorer school where he learned how to be an explorer. Later, he became a ship captain, contracted scurvy, befriended some pirates, married a mute siren, invented shuffleboard, then discovered America. (That same year he discovered hair growing out of the mole on his neck). He wanted to name the New World "Vespucci," but luckily cooler heads prevailed and "America" (the English version of "Amerigo") was chosen instead.

When Amerigo discovered the New World and first saw the native peoples, he lapsed into song. Here is that moment captured in a restored photograph:

Quaking like an Aspen

Today we will explore Greek mythology. We are all familiar with gods and goddesses from Greek mythology. For example, everyone remembers Achilles, the God of tendonitis. We all know Poseidon as well. Poseidon, God of the oceans, rivers and irrigation systems, directed a movie about his adventures called The Poseidon Adventure. It starred Ernest Borgnine and many other top-notch Hollywood actors. Years ago my barber looked exactly like Ernest Borgnine, but that is a story for another blog entry.

Today we will focus on the myth of Apollo and Daphne. As the story goes, Apollo, the God of the sun, insulted Eros (a.k.a. Cupid) by teasing him about his bow and arrow.

"Ha, Eros!" Apollo chided, "What have you to doeth with thine arrows that you shooteth? Thou shalt surely misseth all thy targets. " (Many people don't realize that Greek Gods spoke an Old English dialect).

"Chide me not!" Eros retorted, "for as thou chidest me, I shalt smite thee rightly with mine own feathered darts!"

In the midst of all the chiding, along came Daphne, the wood nymph. She seemed to float into the scene as she approached in her new toga (it was made from contour sheets). In the Greek world, Daphne's beauty was legendary and knew no season. So great was her beauty that when men beheld her countenance they would weep and rent their hair and gouge out their eyeballs, knowing they could never hold her or possess her or take her out for a date.

Eros, still stinging from Apollo's rebuke, noted that Apollo began panting like a labrador as Daphne entered the glade where they stood. Apollo was rightly smitten by the goddess before him, and he fell to his knees, overcome with the inability to fulfill the lust which reduced his burning heart to embers. He babbled like an idiot.

Eros, never missing an opportunity to exact revenge, removed two arrows from his quiver. One was gold, and the other was lead. (He also had some regular arrows as he was planning to go pheasant hunting with Socrates later that day). The gold arrow instilled love in he whose heart it pierced, whereas the lead arrow would instill abhorrence. With a wry smile gracing his impish face, Eros shot the gold arrow into Apollo, and he shot the lead arrow into Daphne.

This is where the story gets really interesting. Eros left for his periodontal appointment, but that's not the interesting part. Apollo stood, smoothed out his toga, and told Daphne, "I lovest thou from the depths of my soul and the temple of my loins. What sayest thou? Wilt thou accompaniest me for baclava? My treat!"

Daphne, flushing with venomous hatred and repulsion, made a face as if she had eaten an undercooked dolma, then turned and ran, her ears hot and red and pounding with each beat of her heart. So fast did she run that her toga fluttered and snapped like a sail around her porcelain yet supple torso. Her feet barely grazed the forest floor as she leapt over fallen logs and creek beds and ran up and down mountains. Like a beautious flash of whiteness and loveliness, she sprinted through the Greek countryside for the better part of the afternoon.

Daphne did not tire, and soon she was certain she had outrun her newfound adversary. She glanced over her shoulder. "EEEK!" she shrieked, as if she had come face-to-face with Medusa. It was Apollo! He was running effortlessly a few feet behind. Worse yet, he smiled mischievously as he casually popped olives into his mouth. His lips glistened in the sun, his sun, from the olive oil which now dripped down his chin. Daphne serpentined between trees, attempting to gain her advantage.

"Oh you-hoo! You-hoo! Daphne," Apollo chided, "spurn not my advances. Retreat thou into this nearby grove for some ungodly kanoodling!" He spat out an olive pit and skipped like a giddy schoolboy as he chased his prey.

My god, Daphne thought, this lovesick, pit-spitting rogue will have his way with me. I care neither for man nor the fixed routine of wifely duties, yet that may come to pass.

"Father," she called out, looking up at the sky. "Help me! Help me! Change my form or command the earth to swallow me up!" Daphne's father, Peneus, a river god, heard his daughter's cry from the heavenly realm where he was playing Scrabble with the other gods. Peneus stood, cracked his knuckles then peered over the fringe of his cloud down toward Earth. "Daphne, my daughter, my seedling, change thy form!" Peneus stormed as he pointed his finger toward Earth. Zeus was nearby wearing an apron as he prepared a snack tray. "Peneus," he said, "I likest thy style! High five!"

Meanwhile, back on planet Earth, Apollo grabbed hold of Daphne's toga with a surge of triumph and a tsunami in his nether regions. He could not restrain himself any more than Cyclops could wink. Apollo ripped off Daphne's toga and for a solitary, rapturous moment, he gazed upon her alabaster nakedness and silky, heaving form. Amidst the tumultuousness of his half-crazed mind he could muster only one coherent thought: "I wonder if she's wearing lip gloss!"

But wait! Godly trickery was at work, and even the power of Eros' lethal arrows faltered. Daphne's pace slowed. She stiffened; her gait became wooden. Apollo released Daphne as he noted the sudden hardening of her supple flesh. Overcome with horror and emotional detumescence, he fell backward like a steamed grape leaf, gasping in fits as the scene unfolded.

Daphne looked skyward and raised her willowy arms. Just as branches with tiny buds sprouted from each of her fingertips, viney roots erupted from her feet and spread outward, eventually burrowing into the mossy earth. Her expression was resolute and knowing, and she nodded subtly and looked heavenword and mouthed the words, "Thank you, father. Thank you for hearing me. I know I interrupted your Scrabble game."

The setting sun seemed to be peering over Apollo's shoulder, frozen in space and time, as Daphne's transformation continued, her legs fusing into a trunk, her breasts becoming burls, her skin furrowing with bark-like delineations, her hair blowing upward and forming a canopy of sprigs, her face withering and finally disappearing, disappearing forever into the leaves which had freed themselves from their buds.

The sun set, and Apollo had fallen unconscious. The crepuscular wind blew gently, like a mother's breath cooing over her baby, and Daphne's leaves quaked and rustled with newfound joy and freedom. All night long she swayed and held her branches aloft, blissfully experiencing the sappy pulsations within her bark and the rings which spread outward from the core of her trunk. She nestled her roots deep into the loamy earth; it felt like her walks in the wet sand along the seashore. She sensed the night air entering and exiting her myriad leaves like sighs. Somehow the entirety of these sensations was familiar (she was a wood nymph afterall), and she understood this was her new destiny.

Morning came. Apollo awoke. He stared at the tree before him. Was it an aspen? A birch? A dogwood or an alder? He rubbed his eyes. Suddenly the events from the night before tumbled into his mind in quick succession. He approached the tree and touched the smooth, papery bark. He noted the green, silvery leaves shimmering in the morning sun. He sat. He wondered. He understood this was his new destiny. He would sit in the shade of this tree and lovingly tend it like a gardener tended his rosebushes. He would make wreathes from its fallen leaves in Autumn, and keep vigil in the Spring, waiting for the moment when the new leaves erupted from their buds. His head was quiet, and he relished the unfathomable contentedness which now coursed through his veins.

"Thank you, Eros," Apollo whispered, "You knew what you were doing all along."

That, I can assure you, dear reader, is exactly how it all happened. I have acquired some additional information. Experts in Greek mythology have determined that Daphne transformed into an aspen, otherwise known as Populus tremulus, such as the ones pictured here:

These wondrous beauties, also know as quaking aspen, frequent the Sierra Nevada at elevations of 6,000-9,000 feet and tend to congregate around rivers. They love moisture and the communal shade which their leafy canopies engender. There is a grove of aspen on the shores of Lake Tahoe near Taylor Creek, where salmon hatch and salmon return to die:

Quaking aspen do not grow well at sea level. As such, those who dwell near the ocean must find a related alternative if they are to enjoy the aspen. I suggest the white birch; it grows well at sea level and is similar to the aspen, a cousin of sorts. The leaves are almost indistinguishable from those of the aspen:

Gian Lorenzo Bernini, the Neapolitan sculptor, also understood that Daphne had transformed into an aspen. He captured the moment in a perfect block of pure Carrera marble in 1625:

In the close-up view one can appreciate the aspen leaves sprouting from Daphne's fingertips:

On a final note, if you inspect the sculpture closely, you can see that Daphne is, indeed, wearing lip gloss.

My Own Illuminated Landscape

This month's Sierran book comes highly recommended. The Illuminated Landscape is an anthology of writings about the Sierra Nevada.

From the book's preface:

The vitality and grandeur of the Sierra Nevada offers no greater palette for the muse.

By the way, I hosted a bbq to celebrate the one year anniversary of the blog, Sierra Musings (08/31/10). Inivitations were mailed. Noone attended, but that's ok. I ate a hot dog with some potato salad. I gave the leftovers to our dog, *Kaweah. Kaweah enjoyed the food very much and wagged her tail appreciatively and intermittently succumbed to her sudden fits of joy by jumping on me. She seemed to be saying, "I just realized that you're here!"

*Kaweah is the Piute word for "I squat here." To quote Dave Barry, I am not making this up!

Coffee to Go

Caffeine consumption while backpacking presents special challenges. Traditionally, I have used the individual packets of Taster's Choice Instant Coffee. I simply pour the grounds into my mouth then chase it with several gulps of ice cold water. It can cause coffee breath, however, and you may smell like Mrs. Campos, my fifth grade teacher, the one who wore a wig. More recently I use the Power Bar Gels, the ones that say "2XCAFFEINE" on the packet. That way I know I'm getting at least two times the caffeine my body requires for optimal performance.

My sister, Kay, solidly endorses "Via," the coffee pictured above. It is Starbuck's answer to instant coffee. She recently used it while canoe camping with her husband, Pierre, in Canada. Canoe camping in Canada is exactly like Sierran backpacking, except for the differences noted here:

Canoe Camping in Canada:

Store gear in canoe
Paddle canoe on water
You are in Canada


Backpacking in Sierras:

Store gear in backpack on your back
Hike on trail
You are in the Sierras (not in Canada)


My brother, Jay, uses a more elaborate set-up for his caffeine needs when he backpacks. He carries a miniature, light-weight brew and drip system made from a nuclear teflon alloy which is collapsible and weighs as much as a postage stamp. It was developed by Nasa working in conjunction with the Juan Valdez Institute. It can be purchased at REI for the equivalent of several mortgage payments.

All this coffee talk makes me recall an anectdote about my sister, Celerina. Actually, I don't know how she solves the caffeine dilemma while backpacking. I do know, however, that while attending college, she and her roommates would use paper towels or napkins when they ran out of toilet paper. On one occasion, perhaps during finals week, they had no toilet paper. Regrettably, they also lacked paper towels and napkins, so apparently, in a span of three days, they resorted to coffee filters. My most delicate hiney cringes!

Years later (last October), Celerina's son declared that he wanted to be a mummy for the Halloween parade at school. This was moments before leaving the house for school. Alas, however, there was no toilet paper in the house with which to mummify her son. Celerina resorted, therefore, to coffee filters; she pasted them onto her son like doilies. She told her son that if he walked around like a mummy then perhaps his classmates would believe he was a mummy. That day his teacher gave him the prize for best costume. "In all my years of teaching," the teacher said, "I've never had a child come dressed for Halloween as an octopus tentacle!"

The One(s) that Got Away

Cinder Col
On the Perch of Brewer Basin
Kings Canyon National Park
09/06/04

Call me Jerome. Let me tell you a story about Jay and Sven. And I swear on my favorite Nalgene bottle this story is true. Only the names of those involved, some of the expletives, most of the verbs and all of the punctuation have been altered to protect the innocent and prevent the authorities from intervening.

Jay and Sven, both in their young 20s, decided to go backpacking together. They were mired in that neither here nor there time in life when you started counting your college credits, and you realized you could write a paper about Herman Melville's use of symbolism and alliteration in *Moby Dick, but you didn't have a stinking (or nice smelling) clue about what to do with your life.

*(Translated from the Spanish classic, Moby Ricardo).

So, during a free week between their Summer jobs and their semesters resuming, Jay and Sven ventured into Kings Canyon National Park to hike the Rae Lakes Loop. This 46 mile loop boasts stunning scenery, stark granite, raucous rivers and lakes which reflect the surrounding cliffs and your own wide-eyed face with astonishing clarity.

Years ago I caught an 11 inch trout in one of those lakes, a spotted, slippery Brooke Trout which harbored a whitish scar along its dorsal fin. I released it back into the water. Moments later I caught the exact same fish. I recognized the trout's big lips (and the scar). As I removed the hook I gazed into the trout's doleful eyes, and it stopped struggling. Something seemed to pass between us, between that trout and me. It's difficult to articulate, but after I told the trout to be careful next time, the trout seemed to say, "I love you." It then slipped out of my hands and fell into the water, gone forever. I washed the slime off my hands. "I love you, too," I whispered, "I love you, too." Peculiar things happen when you backpack alone.

Anyway, Jay and Sven decided to do the loop as a tough haul in three days. On day one they headed up Bubbs Creek to Junction Meadows. On day two they pushed themselves over Glen Pass then descended past Rae Lakes, Arrowhead Lake and Dollar Lake down to the Woods Creek Crossing. They had completed 29 miles at altitude with full packs, fueling themselves with handfuls of almonds and raisins and Top Ramen. They were deservedly exhausted, dehydrated and demoralized. That afternoon they set up camp while sipping water, popping Motrin and leaning against a fallen tree. Nightfall was a few hours distant. They were alone and about 50 feet off the trail.

Sven complained of a relentless ache in his right trapezius, that pesky hunk of muscle between the shoulder and neck which knots up if you study too hard or watch a movie in the front row. He rubbed the ropey muscle with his hands and groaned.

"It's no use," he told Jay, "It feels like an anchor has set in my upper back."

Jay sat quietly and read his book and glanced at Sven with a hint of irritation. He ached as well and chose to suffer in silence, meditatively, like a monk wearing a hair shirt.

Sven persisted, however, and began pacing about the campsite. He rubbed his upper back against a Lodgepole Pine and a slab of granite. He twirled his neck around in circles and tried to perform chiropractic maneuvers on himself. He jumped up and grabbed a branch and dangled above the ground. None of these interventions alleviated his evolving discomfort.

Finally, Sven looked at Jay and gently implored, "Tell you what, Jay. If you give me a backrub I'll give you a backrub. Ok? My back really hurts."

Jay stopped reading his book in the middle of a crucial paragraph. He closed the book and set it aside. He looked at Sven with disbelief. It was as if Sven had said, "I think a tapeworm is coming out of my butt. Would you kindly pull it out for me?"

Moments passed. Jay finally answered, "Massage your back? No way! Not in a million years. Not in two million years. Not here, not back home. Not now, not later! Not on that log, not in the tent! I will not give you a massage! You're crazy! (Sven-I-am!)"

Well, sometimes peculiar things happen when you backpack with another person as well, and this is where the gap in the story intercedes. Details become sketchy. But let it be known that later, before the sun set, Jay and Sven were sitting on the log, and Jay had his hands positioned on Sven's upper back. He massaged Sven's back with all the enthusiasm and gusto of someone fishing their cell phone out of the toilet. Jay's expression spoke volumes; it was as if he just learned his hot girlfriend was actually his long lost sister.

"That feels so much better, Jay!" Sven sighed. "Ahhhhh! That's nice! Would you like me to rub your back, now? Jay? Jay?!" Jay's hands were still placed on Sven's upper back, but he had stopped massaging.

Sven whirled around. Jay was staring up at the trail. Now Sven stared too. There, on the trail, no further than the distance you could cast your lure, stood four women backpackers. They stood silently with bemused expressions, like the Goddess, Venus, coming out of the clamshell on the seashore in Botticelli's painting, The Birth of Venus. Had the women been watching for seconds? Or minutes? They seemed slightly out of breath. Was that because of the altitude? Their wispy hair cascaded down their torsos and fluttered subtly in the breeze. They wore spandex shorts and tight tank tops. Their skin was bronze and smooth and supple, like the skin of a peach on the kitchen counter on a hot Summer afternoon. They were athletic and limber and all bosomy, like the women in the REI catalogues, but more real, like real princesses who could finish a triathlon then make you a hamburger with all the fixings. And they were all 23 years old, that much was obvious.

Their scent wafted over to Jay and Sven. They smelled like shampoo (was it Pantene?) and a hint of Noxzema. It was intoxicating. Jay removed his hands from Sven's back and sheepishly waved. He tried to speak, but his tongue seemed paralyzed, and he could only produce a barely audible squeak.

"So that's the way it is!" one of the women said. The other women giggled as they turned and continued their hike down the trail. Their lilting laughter faded and finally disappeared as it mingled with the sound of the water tumbling past in the nearby creek.

They were gone. Gone forever. But Jay stood defiantly and declared (more to the trees than to Sven), "Gosh darn it! With God as my witness, someday I will find those women. Even if I must search every corner of the earth, the tops of mountains, the depths of the oceans, I will find them! And when I do, well, you'll see! Everyone will see!"

He then looked at Sven and continued, "Now, I'm going somewhere away from this spot." He looked around the campsite then pointed at the tent. "I'm going over there, into the tent!."

"Good night!" he said.

Manna

There are three Young Lakes. I arrive at the third, the Upper, well behind my three sons. I doddle and walk in slow motion through the spongy meadows, my boots pressing into the mud and leaving their indelible prints, my hands swatting helplessly like windshield wipers at the mosquitos pelting my face and kamakazing into my nose and windpipe, my eyes squinting behind my sunglasses as the light reflecting off the granite and the greenness of the grass pries open my soul, gently, inconspicuously, like the first gust of wind in late morning.

The Indian Paintbrush flourishes. The blossoms are stiff, like pipecleaners, and blood orange, like the innards of a ruby grapefruit, with yellow highlights, as if the florist stuck in miniature bananas. They carpet the grass, and if I kneel I can run my fingertips over the blossoms. If I stoop further and sniff them I notice only the absence of fragrance, the dry Sierran air which is pure like wind, and pure like that snowbank down which my boys are currently tumbling and cheese-gratering, and pure like the water dripping off my forearm after I remove it from the icy water.

I am neither thirsty nor hungry and all the worldy vexations and ridiculousness of work are no more noticeable than the chapstick in my pocket, so I am happy to embrace the scene and let it enter me like breath. I decide to sit right here, until the next Ice Age. But the mosquitos thicken. One bites my lip. Another bites my eyelid (I have congenital DEET deficiency). I swell up like a tomato. I peer into the water at my reflection. I look like Rocky Balboa after he fights the Russian guy in Rocky 17. My boys run past. They are heading downhill in rapid fashion. Dad! they say, the mosquitos will eat you for lunch! We're getting out of here!

I follow.