It was just a walk under a never ending blue sky. There was a purpose to the steps, but no hurry, especially on the uphills. I tried to keep my breathing calm, always a battle. The colors were thrilling, the breeze intoxicating. When I finally plunked the Beast down above the last snowbank in Mulkey Meadow, I couldn’t wipe the look of wonder from my face. I thought perhaps it was the new-to-me ground under my feet, but no. It was the sense of being, of presence in that moment. The wonder was a long-delayed sense of relief.
I am spoiled now: fat and slow and liking my comforts. A chair to sit in once I get to camp; happy hour of triscuits and Brie and olives and usually bourbon. I like getting into camp early so the sun is still warm when I bathe in the creek or lake. I like an inflatable pillow for my head rather than just my extra clothes in a stuff sack. I like to sit and gaze out at nothing, think of nothing, the sounds of cicadas fading away to nothing. I like to watch the light change, the wind dance, the ants gather… from my chair. I don’t bother to weigh the Beast anymore: I know it’s too much, and on some days, I do care. Tomorrow, in fact, I will care.
But I put in close to ten miles today, so I am proud. The only thing I cursed were the horses and mules who have softened the sand here further, making those on two feet push across the endless beach that is the decomposing southern Sierra. Ankle-deep at times, my toes would capture and throw a barrage of sand to my forward ankle, my shoes catching more and more through the day. When I reached the south fork of the Kern, I dumped my shoes into the stream, aiding the grains with their slow march to the sea.
The cloud blew in over camp a bit ago, shading the late afternoon sun, and its breeze pushing the bugs away (but not before they sampled me a few times). The cicadas have calmed, allowing birdsong to float over the meadow. The lupine, and pussypaw, and paintbrush, and primrose are still bright, even in the muted light. I can see traces of copper-red of foxtail snags on the hills nearby. Frogs and birds are trading stories. A buck strolled, leisurely, across the grass earlier. I am just watching and listening.
—
The tone of water is always something to which I look forward. It’s only occasionally been frightening, as in a flash flood or a waterfall directly in my route. But the thrum of rain, the clink of a small ephemeral stream, the rush of a swollen river over boulders, brings me a sense of deep calm.
Today there was no trail to start, but not on purpose. There was a sign, a few rough steps, a line in my map. But either time, non-use, or the weather had washed those sandy slopes completely clean. I zigzagged the climb, the Beast enforcing gravity, my breath heavy as I scanned for paths through the manzanita and stacked granite. There are few shortcuts I trust, and this was why. But, the lonely forest of foxtails, straight and thick-trunked, provide needed shade and a chance to catch my breath. “This is where you get stronger,” I reminded myself.
And as I cleared the final ridge, I heard the rumble of Golden Trout Creek two hundred feet below. My shoulders relaxed at the thought of cold water being poured into me. I bombed down the sand, poles placed just so to balance myself. I was skiing again, making my turns solid and smooth, until the final run out at the water.
It ran fast, the current strong, splashing up to my thighs as I crossed, planting each pole solidly before another step. I faced upstream, made sure my foot was sound. Across and up, I found my trail at last, heading north. It climbed slowly beside the creek, affording perfect views of the white cascades over granite. Meadows sprung away be seeps and springs, a few more flowers to enjoy.
I found camp early, by the water. It wasn’t supposed to be: I was looking for another trail heading northwest. But when I stopped and checked, I had surprisingly missed the turn. I backtracked the 1/10 of a mile, looking for a sign, a few muddy steps, but nothing appeared. I wasn’t eager to hunt down yet another route that day. The rush of the river beckoned me to be still. And so I was.
I could remember a time when this would not have been enough; where I would not have taken a moment to appreciate what my mind, body, and heart can accomplish. A few times, I looked back at Tunnel Meadow and tried to convince myself to go back down to the trail and take it around. But there is still something in me that wants to see: the rocks at the top of the ridge; the hidden bowl of trees, sand, and washes; the dryness coupled with a touch of green from a running spring. These were now mine, as I searched for the roar of the water. And this whole afternoon let me reap my reward.
—
I wasn’t quite asleep when the shaking started, and I was awake enough to know to lie still. The movement seemed jumbled, a few sharper jolts, then swaying. Even after it stopped, it didn’t stop, with small swings over the next 45 minutes. The forest was completely still, save the water, which just rushed on its happy way, unperturbed by the vibrations rolling through the mountains. And I felt, grounded. I pressed my cheek and palms to the thin floor of the tent, wanting to absorb that energy being set free by a piece of the earth moving. I was lying with the earth, felt it groan. It is alive and powerful, as I want to be.
I slept in, the sun high in the morning sky and warming the tent when I swear I heard someone say, “wake up, Laura.” I rose, stretching an aching back soft from too many nights in comfortable beds and not on firm ground. Birds called above the sloshing creek, a little breeze whistling the trees. I took my time, knowing it would be a short day and not to rush.
On the eastern side of a vast, green meadow, I watched the evening sun banish the clouds I wish would stay for sunset. There are still patches of snow up high on the Crest, remnants of a winter some thought might not end this year. The grasses and sage were ruffled by the breeze, the call of frogs wafting softly as the water slithers it’s winding path. The light played here all afternoon, with I, alone, the silent observer. It is this I must remember when life is at its most trying: the buzzing of bees and flies; the light chirp of birds; the wind in the trees; the stoic silence of mountains. This is presence. This is connection with my soul. This is peace. This is my salvation.
This is home.