Chess in Bear Country

We stopped to play chess on the second day when a thunderstorm broke out along the trail

What a delightful picnic for a hungry bear: rice and lentils bubbling on the camp stove, a large box of cookies on the ground of the visitor parking lot in Yosemite National Park.

Better yet, the people supposedly in charge of supervising the food were not watching carefully. No, our eyes were locked on the chessboard, each of us trying to figure out how to wrench control of the center. Our headlamps barely deviated from the plastic pieces in front of us.

Insects began to crawl out from the dark and across the game board.

I didn’t care. It had been about a year since I’d played Andrew in a game of chess. Amazingly, I seemed to have the upper hand this time. It was a success that I wanted desperately to hold on to, and so I gave the board my absolute attention, only dimly aware of what was going on outside the board. I would be more aware of an attack from Andrew’s king side than I would a pair of hungry eyes staring at me from the darkness.

The funny thing is that for all my time in the outdoors, I could only remember two bear encounters. It seems unfair that when everyone else can break out their badass bear stories, the best that I've been able to do is recount the dark blur running across a road in Maine — or the blur that I saw crossing a path at the base of Mt. Washington.

In that sense, bears have always been something of an abstract threat to me, maybe even a hoax. Perhaps park rangers invented bears so they could enjoy breaking into cars and absconding with tourists’ cookies and jars of peanut butter.

Whether or not they exist, I’ve done my best to behave as though bears are a real thing that should be taken seriously. That includes me hanging up food, putting food in canisters and shouting my way through bear country with a can of bear spray at my hip.

It was this fear of an unforeseen threat that explained why I continued to shoot nervous glances over my shoulder, even as the chess game intensified.
No doubt, at times a feeling of uncertainty is valuable. A chess player who anticipates the conventional attack but not the unconventional, is vulnerable to a wily opponent. So would it be foolish of me to be unprepared for bears simply because none of the horror stories had happened to me.

A pair of headlights swept over the board. I saw a group of rangers step out of a pair of vans and begin pick their way around the cars, shining their flashlights in through the windows.

 Someone had left Nutella jars in the front, one ranger called out. He and another ranger began discussing what they should do. The food was clearly visible for a hungry bear. Even if a bear didn't end up smashing through the windows in order to get to it, the rangers could still hit the offender with a hefty fine.

Finally one of the rangers wandered over to our chess game. She took a quick survey of the soup and other food, we had out.

Should we put that away? I asked.

It was alright, she said, but she wanted to know where we were staying that night. We let her know that we had one of the sites for backcountry campers apart from the major campgrounds.

“Just so you know, we are like, on bear red alert right now,” she told us. The other rangers’ lights going through the parking lot seemed to reinforce the NCIS feeling of the scene.

“In fact, you will probably see a bear tonight.”

Then she ran through the usual drill of how to store food properly and clear the car of anything, that a bear could want. Anything. Deodorant, antifreeze and camp fuel could all be temptation enough for a hungry animal to bash the glass in.

Usually, the bears usually don’t make a move if they see people around, she said. So we would probably be OK where we were in the parking lot, even if we hadn't done the best job keeping our food locked down.

The rangers finished up their sweep and it was just Andrew and I in the parking lot, playing chess.

I had him just where I wanted. A successful ambush had left him a rook down. Now I was only a couple of moves away from getting a new queen and then he’d be really finished.

Sure he had his own pawn advancing toward my side, but I was confident that I could squelch the puny rebellion with my piece advantage.

The problem was that my opponent wasn't looking at the board as though it were a fight that anyone could win. It was a math problem. Somewhere in the equation was the variable that would destroy my lead and give him the game once more. He stared endlessly at the board, trying to find out what it was.

Sure enough, there was an Achilles Heel in my defenses: his advancing pawn, which threatened to give him a queen and turn the tables on the game. I ended up having to move my knight to the last square to block it. I would have to kill the little troublemaker soon, or my knight would stay trapped and eventually die.

It should have been easy to knock out the pesky pawn, but Andrew’s remaining rook proved more troublesome than I anticipated. He used it to put me in check, then to threaten the knight itself. I tried to hold ground, but the mathematics of inevitability had turned against me.

“Sonofabitch!”

The circuits in my brain had heated up like an overloaded switchboard, racing through the permutations, searching for the sequence of moves that would win back victory.

Meanwhile, the knight held its outpost — about to fall to the enemy’s aggressions.

The knight fell. The pawn moved forward, and in its place rose a queen for my enemy. I was screwed.

I stared at the pieces in the headlamp beams, then toppled my king.

It’s a crappy feeling when you squeeze yourself dry trying to prevent something and then fall short. Then again, it could have been the best game of chess I’d played yet.
.

We packed our food into the bear boxes at the edge of the parking lot and grabbed the tent.

Of course we talked about the game the whole way over to the tent site including the various turns of favor and how things might have turned out differently. Finally, we got to the site and quit talking so as not to wake the other campers. The starlight shone through the boughs of the sequoias.

We pitched the tent and zonked out.

But in my dreams I was that solitary headlamp on the chessboard, a lamp that swung deep into the trees, looking to find where the bears were hiding. 

The best backyard in the world

High Sierras as seen from campsite near Independence, CA

“The battery’s dead,” Andrew told me.

I had just finished dunking my head in the icy stream running through the center of the campsite. I blinked the water drops out of my eyes, readjusting to the hot sun.

“The car battery?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

It figured. We’d kept the car doors open all morning while we were packing and that meant that the little door lights had been on for the whole time. Plus, Andrew had been charging his phone. He also might have had a fan or two running as well. Now his car didn’t have enough energy to spark the ignition.

Fortunately there were other cars and trucks in the lot. It was just a matter of finding someone who would be willing to give us a jump.

I adjusted my sopping hair and tried to adjust myself so it didn’t look so much like I was on drugs. Doubtless, my summer cold made me look far off and lackadaisical — that and the tremendous heat of the day, which sapped away what little energy I had left. To think that only a day earlier we had been trekking across snowfields. The High Sierras rose up behind the campsite, the miles of  snow a contrast to the sweaty heat down below.

Eventually, I got a guy to loan us a battery that he used to jump his car in emergencies. Unfortunately, it had run too low on juice, and was unable to get the Subaru started. The guy called his buddy over to see if he could help us out.

A spindly guy with a gray ponytail and a chest-length beard shuffled over the gravel to us in his flip-flops. It was only about 10 a.m. but he already had a beer koozie in his left hand. He was bent so severely at his back that I worried he would split in two.

He flashed us a broad smile minus a couple of teeth.

Sure, he’d be happy to help.

About a minute later, a beat-to-hell pickup truck rumbled up next to Andrew’s Subaru.

The guy attached the contact points and gave his old engine a quick burst of fuel. It was all we needed to get the car running.

As our benefactor coiled his jumper cables back up, I asked where he was from.

Long Beach, he replied, but for the summer months, this campground was home. He’d loved this place beside the mountains ever since he was young. Now, in his retirement, he could appreciate the scenery as much as he liked. . He’d paid off his expenses (including the camper) and Social Security was there to cover the rest.

He gestured toward the back of the campsite, where the sagebrush climbed into the foothills and gave way to pine forest and the tall peaks.

It was the best backyard in the world, he said, and he didn’t even have to mow it.

We thanked him for the help and told him he should have a great day.

He raised his koozie to us. He wasn’t worried about that, he told us, pointing to his beverage. He had everything he needed.

The High Passes: Fourth Day of The Rae Lakes Loop

View climbing up north side of Glen Pass

     

     It’s a spectacle I’ve seen a hundred times, though I doubt that I will ever tire of it.

The scene starts in the early morning, when all the land is dark and the mountaintops are only some vague shadow against the stars. Then, suddenly, the sun gives itself away, striking the tops of those first peaks — a promise of the warmth and light to come.

Waking up beside the lake, I watched the dull rock of Fin Dome catch fire in those first rays of daylight, burning like a beacon above the land. Gradually, the light marched down the mountain until it touched the lakes, banishing the cold night air with its intensity.

By the time Andrew and I hit the trail,  it was T-shirt weather.

View  from the lakes

A watchful marmot

Our path took us along the banks of the lakes — clear, sapphire-blue and bitter cold with snowmelt. Only the orange warmth of the sequoia trees growing along the shore could offset the iciness of those depths.

Soon, we came upon an empty ranger station, guarded by a couple of fat marmots outside. They eyed us suspiciously from their boulder pile. Maybe these were the replacement rangers after all the recent Park Service cuts. 

Patches of deep snow on the trail made things difficult quickly. Apparently there was a rule that if snow fell anywhere, it fell in the path. One moment we would be walking confidently across the crust, the next we would be waist deep in the stuff, struggling to get out. Whenever possible, we stuck to rocks, even if this required tricky boulder scrambling.

The going only got harder as we started to climb out of the lakes and up Glen Pass. About 90 percent of the way was snow covered here, requiring us to leapfrog between exposed boulders and kick-step our way straight up snowfields (we’d left our ice-axes and crampons behind to cut down weight.)

The Southern California sunshine reached eye-stabbing intensity on the snow. I bitterly regretted not bringing sunglasses, and began thinking that soon I'd go the way of the sad saps on arctic expeditions who got snow blindness. To prevent this, I ended up taking off my black athletic shirt and wrapping it around my head. The fiber was thin enough for me to see through it (sort of.) The worst part was that I had to breath through four days of my unwashed self.

Starting up the pass

 We found ourselves cutting more traverses and going straight up the snow as we got higher. Little bits of crust would fly out from beneath our boots when we kicked steps in, then down the slope out of sight. More boulder fields came up, and I started using rock climbing moves in order to get past obstacles. It was difficult work, but I felt energized by it. I barely noticed that our route had now begun to go well left of the main trail and that we were starting up a taller, steeper section of ridge.

Oh, What the hell? I thought. This way looks more fun anyway.

The rocks ended and became snow slope again. I ended standing on my toes and punching the snow in front of me in order to make holds. For the last hundred feet or so, the crust got thicker, so I had to punch harder. The way was steep enough so that turning around and descending the way I came was a stomach-turning option.  I didn't look down, and just kept climbing until I got to the rocks at the top of the ridge.

There were miles of mountains, their flanks still shining with snow despite the summery temperatures. I could guess where Glen Pass was supposed to be further down the ridge. I easily stood above 12,000 feet now.

Below, the Rae Lakes burned emerald up at us. Another lake chain, up about 1,000 feet higher, was still in its winter freeze and appeared dull and lifeless by contrast.

We had our work cut out for us between kicking up snowfields and rock scrambling

The frozen wastes

Andrew came up a couple of minutes after me. We split PB&J’s on flat bread and made plans.

He wanted to see about following the ridge east and save time by taking a different route down the far side of the mountain. The terrain on the ridge looked treacherous to mine eyes. What I really wanted to see is whether it would be possible to get to the tallest point on the ridge if we ditched the weight of our backpacks. Then we could work our way back to the main trail over Glen Pass. Andrew agreed to give it a try.

As soon as we started the boulder scramble, I found myself using my hands as much as my feet. Navigating the rocks required lizard-like contortions. The ridge became a razor’s edge, with drops of 1,000 feet or more on each side. But the terror of the slope had a hypnotizing power. The more I wanted to turn back, the more it seemed to draw me forward.

There would be a steep climb with difficult handholds and I would finally seem about ready to turn back. Then I would think about how I would do it if I had to. I would see how the hand holds and the footholds would work, and in the next moment I would actually be doing it.  Finally, I topped out near a boulder at about chest-height. There was about a two-foot margin at the top with a cliff on either side. The ridge kept going from there, challenging me to try my luck.

I could technically have made it up there, but the fear was finally too great for me to do it.

Someone had set up a pile of rocks nearby. Perhaps this had been the end of the line for that hiker as well.  

A view from the ridge 

After a careful, wriggling descent, Andrew and I made it back to our packs. It took about another 45 minutes from there to get to where the trail goes over Glen Pass. The ridge was harder to walk over than I had guessed There were several places where we post-holed, or went down one slope or the other to avoid a steep section.

By the time we got to the trail, it was a carriage road by comparison. I practically skipped down the traverses, losing altitude with neither effort nor fear.

Once again we dropped into sequoia forest, out of the glare of the sun. We filled our water bottles in a stream that ran through the trees.

We weren’t destined to stay low for long however. We still had to regain elevation in order to get back over Kearsarge Pass the way that we came in.

Sequoias on the way to Kearsarge Pass

By the time that we wound past Bullfrog Lake, the sun was low enough to light up the sides of the sequoias. The water shone deep blue from about 1,000 feet beneath my boots. 13,000-peaks stabbed into the sky all around. Even though we were pushing daylight, it was hard not to take stops and just gape at the wonder of the scene.

Around this time, I had to stop to readjust my troublesome sleeping bag. The stuff sack was falling apart. Eventually, I just took it off the pack and hiked with the sack slung over one shoulder.

The sequoias dropped away again, and we came back into the land of snow. There was an icy wind at the top of the pass, so we stayed long enough to eat, take in the view of the mountains. More lakes were on the other side. We could look into Onion Valley, where the car was parked. Thousands of feet below that lay Independence, California, and the campsite outside town where we would stay the night and to the east, the desert.

We shouldered our backpacks and hiked the last miles out.

Kearsarge Pass

Mountains On the Water: Third Day of The Rae Lakes Loop

Fin Dome, seen above the Rae Lakes

The deer came back for breakfast.

Andrew and I had just finished eating, oatmeal when we spied them lurking at the corner of the camp like sharks. Be gone pests!

Another barrage of pine cones and a few charges at their flanks helped beat them back but they didn’t go far, hoping that we would leave scraps they could chew. We made extra sure to clear out the site and disappoint them.

It had been a chill morning, with the mountains to the east leaving our campsite in their shadow. As soon as the sun climbed above the peaks, however, things began getting warm fast. I ended up shedding several layers as we followed the trail north along the river.

It was basically an uphill climb for the first eight miles of the hike. Add that to the heat, an unexpected sore throat, plus congestion and it was tough going. Andrew set an ambitious pace. We also got into an hour-long debate about medical reform while puffing up the trail. Eventually, I let my argument drop and tried enjoying the scenery.

Hiking through the valley

There was a grove of silvery aspen trees, leaves fluttering before the peaks that flanked the road ahead. In another place, there appeared to be the aftermath of a colossal avalanche or landslide. There were trees knocked to the ground like toothpicks all the way down one slope, and then partially up another — like the thing had so much momentum that it almost bowled its way up a whole new mountainside.

Soon after, we came upon the Pacific Crest Trail, which crossed the river on a suspension bridge. The trail started gaining elevation quickly from there.

There was a fair amount of mud on the path, which switched back several times across an icy stream. At one point, we found a set of prints — pads and claws — that could only have been left by a bear walking up the trail the same way we were.

Sequoias and snow along the trail

Mud gave way to snow, which came up to hip deep in places. We looked for rocks at the edge of the trail where we would be able to avoid post-holing, but most of the time it was a matter stepping out on the crust and hoping it would hold weight.

Soon, our hard work had its reward: a view of the first high-mountain lake. The snowy peak across the water caught the afternoon sun, casting its illumination upon the dusky water. The lake held mountain and sky in striking double-image.

We had a treacherous march past the pond, traversing a steep wall where we hoped not to slip on the snow underfoot and tumble in the water.

Afterward, we followed the stream for a while longer, enjoying the sight of waterfalls with Fin Dome and other peaks in the background. As the sun sank lower, we began to hike around a larger lake. The gray rock of Fin Dome took on an orange luster.

Camp for the night

We took a camp spot with a bear box and made a dinner of cheesy mashed potatoes. As we surveyed the mountains around us, we started planning for the last day of the loop and whether or not we would want to try to bag one of the peaks nearby. A look at some of those candidates, suggested that this wouldn’t be easy.

The climb up Rixford, for instance, which had looked like an easy jaunt off the trail on my map, looked incredibly tough now that I was there to see it in person. Our way would be fraught with knife-edge ridges and steep snowfields.

Another peak, Gould, still had possibilities if we were willing to do a little extra after we got to the top of Kearsarge Pass on our way out. Still, that added to Kearsarge and the formidable Glen Pass, which we would have to climb in order to get out of the valley (both of which are almost 12,000 feet) might have been overambitious for our last day.

No matter how we cut it, we would have our work cut out for us.

Mountain catches the first light of the new day

The Sprain, The Snake, The Panhandlers: Second Day of The Rae Lakes Loop

Author with sugar pine cones. Yes, they're real and they're spectacular.

I watched with satisfaction at the steam billowing up from my wet boots. It was already 10 a.m., a shamefully late start by hiking standards. I was still eating my oatmeal and didn’t particularly care.

Camp was at about 9,000 feet, amidst the cover of imposing sequoias. Higher up, there stood a backdrop of jagged peaks and late-spring snow cover.

Andrew and I were to march down to about 5,000 feet that day and then start climbing up again as we began to loop toward the high-altitude lakes at the end of our trip. After we finished eating, we set off down the trail. The path lost elevation gradually but steadily in its course along the mountain stream. Soon we began to see sugar pines, immense trees that dropped three-foot cones at our feet. The air was sharp with the aroma of needles and resin. Miles went by and no other travelers appeared to break the natural reverie.

Looking downstream from near our camp

Andrew was up around the bend ahead of me when I heard him cry out. He’d turned his ankle on a stone and suffered a bad ankle sprain. Considering that he had just bought a new pair of boots to stop exactly that from happening, he was not particularly thrilled at the situation. We stopped so he could soak the ankle in the icy stream and I climbed up some boulders nearby for entertainment.

As if the sprain wasn’t frustration enough, not long after we started back down the trail, I heard a loud rip from behind my back. The damn stuff sack! Sure enough, I saw the straps that held my sleeping bag in place had now ripped out of the stuff sack and most of my sleeping bag was now hanging out exposed. I jury-rigged the straps back over the bag as best as I could, but the uneasy feeling that the whole thing was getting ready to fall out again followed me for the rest of the trip.

More deciduous trees began to enter the scene as we started down the trail again, including some whose waxy leaves reminded me of holly. The climate began to look a little drier.

The trail started descending a tight series of switchbacks, taking us deeper into the valley. Finally we reached the intersection near the bridge that marked the lowest point of our journey.

The stream had widened into a full-on river now, emerald green water coursing over boulders. It was an invitation and a challenge to test that water, which had been High Sierra snow not too long before.

Another look down the valley

I managed to plunge in for about half a second before I had to scramble out gasping. Andrew claimed he would try and swim around a boulder near the middle of the river. After long physical and mental preparation, he finally hit the water and turned back to shore instantly.

We both sought the sunlight and ate cookies and raisins to get our energy back. We had a new trail to follow now, going north up one of the river’s tributaries.. A distant rumble grew louder in our ears as we hiked. Then we caught a glimpse of white through the trees: Mist Falls.

The river dropped in a thundering white train, exploding over the cliffs with 10-foot splashes. The crash of water was such that I almost didn’t hear a smaller, subtler noise closer to my ankles.

Rattlesnake!

It was just a small one. He continued to rattle as I jumped back down the trail. Even as he writhed out of the path, he kept his head trained on me. Andrew, who had walked right through the strike-zone without noticing, was not too happy to see how close he had come — he had developed a strong dislike for rattlesnakes from his time on the Appalachian Trail.

The thing continued to rattle and then slunk under a rock, safe from the crazy, shouting hominids overhead.

Eventually, the trail took us into deep pine forest, and it was time to look for a camp spot. We came to a readymade site with a steel bear box for food storage.

Had animals gotten used to humans here? Yes, according to the cocky mule deer that strode into the camp like it owned the place. The mangy animal walked up to within 20 feet of me, tried to give me doe eyes.

“Nope,” I said. “No handouts for you buddy.”

Then I made a lurch toward the animal, as if I might have gotten a sudden hankering for venison dinner instead of the macaroni boiling nearby. The deer wasn’t too impressed by my threat. In fact there were other deer nearby now.

“Ooh yeah. Real scary,” they seemed to say. “We’ve seen it all before tough guy. We know you're just another hippie who loves trees and eats granola, that you’ve never carried a gun into the woods.”

I stirred the mac for a little while, watching the antagonists as they circled camp.

Suddenly, I grabbed a stick off the ground and whirled it around my head.

“You think I’m kidding?” I shouted. “I’ll show you how crazy I am right now!”

The deer started to really run. I chased after, throwing pinecones at their hides.

I may be a softy for nature, but I do not feed the goddamn animals.

I scared those deer so badly that it took five full minutes before they wandered back toward camp.

Andrew and I took turns chasing them around. Maybe the two of us could help them unlearn some of what reckless humans had taught them. Then again, we were probably more of the exception than the rule. Clearly, they had already developed a strong association between human beings and free meals.

I’ve never seen such persistent begging from a so-called wild animal. It’s a troubling sign of how well-meaning folks think they “help” nature by creating dependence. Or maybe they tell themselves they are having some kind of authentic relationship with the wild when wild creatures eat from their hands. Either way, I was glad we didn't encounter bears with that attitude, because that would have been real trouble.

Flowers growing out of stone near Mist Falls

Breathe The Mountains: First Day of The Rae Lakes Loop

After Mount Whitney, Andrew and I headed north to Onion Valley in Sequoia National Park near Independence, California. We planned a four-day loop around the scenic Rae Lakes within the alpine forests and mountain passes, a loop that would include a portion of the Pacific Crest Trail. Coming at the loop from Kearsarge Pass, it would be just about 50 miles of hiking. This post is from the first day of the trip.

Descending to the valley

The snow-covered peaks were already hidden, swallowed up by the swirling clouds and flakes.

 We had come down from that storm. As Andrew and I trudged down from the snowy 12,000-foot Kearsarge Pass in the Sierras, the deep drifts gave way to intermittent patches; gnarled scrub-pine grew up into towering groves of sequoias emerging from the mists below us. Snowmelt from on high ran through the rocks, splashed down into rich blankets of moss, thundered over cliffs in an ivory train of falls. The muddy earth sloshed over my boots.

I came to an edge of a lookout above the falls and I just had to stop.

Mine was the infantile appreciation of someone seeing something much greater, magnetic and beautiful. The beauty was life.

Twin sequoias of equal height stood like sentries before the trail, guarding the entry to a larger grove. The trees in that private valley grew up straight and sure of themselves with ancient strength. Frogs gulped to one another and wind rustled in the branches. A shift in the breeze might part the mists and suddenly reveal a rocky spine of one of the peaks overhead rimmed by an orange glow as it reflected the late-day light. As for other human beings, there was neither sight nor sound.

Gnarled tree on Kearsarge Pass

How could I express the thrill of seeing this, the stupefying awe and say it with something more meaningful than, “Holy shit, that’s beautiful?”

These are the moments of appreciation that I feel inside my cells, soaked in an animal instinct that recognizes the importance of a place. The feeling requires me to look beyond my immediate goals and meditate on how my life is connected to the life around me, which provides not only air and sustenance, but a spiritual nourishment as well.

Oneness with Nature is not the term I would use to describe the experience because I know that I could have stood on the ledge forever and only understood a tiny fraction of the valley in front of me. No, the valley was not there for my benefit. My passage through it was of little consequence.

This is right, I thought. I don’t even have to prove it. 

It wasn’t an opinion; the feeling was as fundamental as the need to eat, at the same time it was fantastic, unknowable and overwhelming. The valley was indisputable — truth and beauty rolled into one.

Like someone at the door of a cathedral, I felt some need to humble myself. There would be strength, not weakness, in that humility because it meant coming to terms with my small stature amongst the immensity around me.

While some might identify this feeling as proof that there is a human need to connect to a singular Almighty, I prefer to let nature stand for itself. Why limit the mystery of the life around me by viewing it through the lens of religion, which has already told me that the purpose of everything is to serve God — if not humans.

I can accept that biology has hardwired us to appreciate valleys like this because they remind us of places where we once expected to find food, shelter and mates. Knowing this does not diminish my ability to appreciate beauty when I see it or suppress my desire to express my appreciation.

Though such feeling may be profound, it is also temporary. It saddened me a little to think that soon enough I would forget exactly what the valley meant to me, and that I would have to direct my attention to more immediate, less transcendental concerns (getting dry socks on, finding a place off the trail where I could dig a hole and crap.)

Writing and photos can only grab a slice of how it feels to be in a place. It is a useful exercise, but does not capture the experience of standing in that place with boots on the rocks, staring at it all with my own eyes. Hence, there is the need to journey out again and reconnect.

The very elusiveness of that feeling is what gave it its emotional power. I would not be here long so I didn’t have the luxury of taking it for granted.

Not a bad model for living life itself:

Look out. Breathe in. Keep moving.

View from camp West of Kearsarge