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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Flowers growing out of stone near Mist Falls |
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