I do not bring books into the wild. I use them instead as sources of information, preparation and to assuage my own curiosities. They are primarily useful in the sense that they are an escape. A break from work. A night where I know I will end up laying my head on a pillow, confined by 4 walls and a roof, instead of in a tent or on a groundcloth. No, to bring books into the wild would be to escape from a reality which I have intended to escape to.
So I bring a pad of paper. And sometimes I write. Not usually, but sometimes. My goal is to bring something back with me in lieu of a stick or a rock souvenir. Here is what I recorded in 4 days in the High Uintas:
"8/16 Precarious bear bagging job done tonight. Red Castle, red mountains everywhere. Have missed having water everywhere. Back sore. Not many flowers. Sheep and cows, grazing on federal wilderness. Fish teased us on E. Red Castle Lake. High cliffs, sweet, soft lady. Goodnight."
So you see, I am not very thorough, nor well-spoken in the moment.
Me: Do you have a pen? (likely needed for some shopping list or reminder to flush the toilet)
Her: No, not on me.
Me: Oh, my, a writer without a pen... (likely followed by a deserved smack in the back of my head)
I stole this jab from a movie scene she once described to me. And, now, I use it against her. (For the record, I may catch her with no pen in possession 1 out every 25 times or so.)
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I find hiking in the dark to be thrilling. Our early start reminds me of the morning I set out to climb Chirripรณ, Costa Rica's high point, a veritable island rising above oceans of jungle. That hike also had me begin my ascent in the dark of the early morning, but this time up Kings Peak, I have a partner, and that is much preferred. Melody and I make our way across the valley and below Anderson Pass, our 12,700 foot stepping stone to the summit. By the time we reach the bottom of the climb, the sun is already lighting up the mountains to the west. So much for a sunrise summit, but our early start will hopefully enable us to avoid being exposed and elevated during afternoon thunderstorms.
I have to marvel at the great work our citizens have done establishing trails in wild places. The climb up to Anderson pass is steep and scree-covered. From the bottom, Melody wonders if the seemingly hidden trail continues on at all. Sure enough, it weaves comfortably between talus stone, and instead of a death penalty by rockfall, we are sentenced to steep switchbacks over leveled ground. In the valley we leave, there is a stump of a mountain called Yellow. I understand why now as the sun brings out its complexion. It's yellow.
By the time we reach the top of the pass, morning is in full swing. Clear skies. We take a little break, sitting atop rocks with high backs of stone, like precarious thrones. We unload items from our packs which are unnecessary to carry further up. While filling my belly with jerky and almonds, I nearly knock the same boulder off its perch a number of times and my heart skips a beat each instance. The experience is a foreshadow of our mostly trail-less ascent from here. Boulder fields, talus slopes, rocks stacked on one another by the ages. They're stable enough to get you to the top, but shaky enough to make you think twice before taking your next step. That's a rocky mountain for you.
It certainly is thrilling to know that you are close to reaching the top of a mountain. The pace is slow on the way, and we take our steps from rock to rock with care. I think part of the discomfort is knowing that, mile-wise, you don't have far to go, but it takes forever! We eventually top out and breathe in the view from the 13,528 foot crest of Utah. The geological gods might have conferred with the mapmakers of later days by placing the state high point at a more central location. I would love to have views of red rock canyons on one side and forested mountains on the other.
But that all makes me sound ungrateful for the view which presents itself atop Kings Peak, a view which is (as one would expect) nothing short of momentous and tough to convey by word and photograph. The arid peaks of the High Uintas go on east-west forever. Wyoming's steppe and farmland is spread out northward, and to the south is the Uinta Basin with its smaller, dryer mountains and mesas barely visible. In our immediate foreground are three main valleys which house acres of pine, grass, and lakes. I will try to catch fish again from one of these lakes before the day is over. There is a hammer and an ammo case at the summit. We're puzzled at the hammer. Maybe, if you have a patience-testing member of your party, the summit is the best place to put you all out of your misery. The ammo case acts as a trail register, and Melody and I leave a couple of notes. Reading others' contributions, I lament at a missed opportunity, realizing how many people have been proposed to on top of this mountain. The ring is at home and I will be waiting another 4 months to bring it to purpose. Many of the summiters write their ages and a short story. Lots of folks who are much older than me. Some who are battling some physical ailment. Others who do the climb as a memory to a deceased loved one. Some, like myself, with a fear of heights, a fear which is more prominent on the descent. Maybe it's all the looking down. "Don't look down," advice which, at the moment, translates, "Close your eyes and curl into a little ball."
It is around 11 AM before we rejoin the rest of our equipment on Anderson Pass. I have developed a strained muscle on the top of my left foot which will bother me for the rest of the trip. Hiking downhill is the most painful. We encounter several groups on their way up to the summit as we walk into Painter Basin, our camping area from a year earlier. This is all familiar territory from here into Henrys Fork. The first thunder and drops of rain of the day are experienced in this basin, and we are glad to not be a part of the groups of latecomers who choose to ascend Kings Peak at this late hour. We have one more legitimate obstacle, Gunsight Pass, and it is obvious as we reach it that the weather is turning into a thunderstorm. The winds pick up and rain comes down in spurts, and then clears. This will replay itself throughout the afternoon.
I have less luck working the shoreline at Bear Lake as the fish do not even make an appearance this time. I think it's time to take up fly-fishing, a practice which seems a bit more subtle than plopping spinners on top of clear, still water. There are a few others at the lake tonight. Melody and I look forward to an easier day of hiking.
Our forest service map shows elevation in increments of 200 feet, downgraded from the much more useful 40 feet. It's too inaccurate for my own liking. We backtrack unnecessarily for a quarter mile, and then turn around and head the correct way. Ascending up a smooth ridge, we top out on a grassy plateau overlooking Henrys Fork, our last view of Kings Peak from the trail. Walking allows us to bond over spats of random discussion and silence. As long as we manage to eat and stay hydrated, morale remains high. The flora is markedly different in Henrys Fork in contrast to the China Meadows drainage. Henrys Fork trees are healthy, and the pines in China Meadows are being overcome by beetles and root diseases, afflictions exacerbated by climate change. The trees are stressed and made susceptible by a combination of lower levels of precipitation and warmer winters, creating a more hospitable environment for the malevolent entities. They are more prone to topple and burn. I have seen forests in the Pacific Northwest, most notably in the 3 Sisters Wilderness, which suffer from these miseries. The feds, individuals, and non-profits take steps to confine and prevent the diseases, but they are fighting an uphill battle, due to the sad intermixing of politics, environmental policy, and greed (as if destruction of our natural ecosystems affects everyday Republicans and Democrats any differently). Still, a battle worth fighting. Here is the hopeful story of a fellow who has taken measures into his own hands: David Gonzales.
-Grasshopper
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