A special place and time, from the past

I have homework for you, if you have the energy. Find any collection of the photography of Ansel Adams, anything at all that he did high in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and when you have digested this magic, I hope you can find a copy of “Mountain Light”, by the climber/photographer, Galen Rowell. What Adams' genius revealed in the wonder of the mountains, with the detail of black and white photography, Rowel captured in the glory of the light up there, and in its color.

Meanwhile, I will attempt to recall some of that wonder with a few words. Where I fail, you can insert an Adams image, or a Rowell jewel, and with luck, you will gain a hint of what I'm trying to describe.

Ya see, I'm talking about a place of remarkable, if austere, beauty. Few people have seen it, although if you go there, and you actually see someone else, someone hiking the main trail that traverses north to south, for instance, you might say, “Go away, for you are crowding my space, and I resent you.” Because when there, you want it all to yourself, and you do not care if anyone else sees it. Certainly, this is selfish, but a crowd of more than a few detracts from the experience, so you gladly choose to be the hermit, at least during your brief time spent there.

The pass isn't much, just a low spot on the Sierra Crest, but it grants entry to the place. You can see part of the Great Western Divide from there, and as you wander down slope from the pass, the view opens up to include more of it. That spectacular row of 13,000 foot peaks is the western boundary, the awe inspiring Sierra Crest forms the eastern wall, and a less famous row of peaks, the King-Kern Divide closes off the north. You walk down to 11,000 feet or so, and then you can wander wherever you wish, giddy from altitude and awe.

Eleven thousand feet marks the end of the trees, and you pass that line going up or down every day. The trees are foxtail pines, a species that for whatever reason elected to live on the very edge of survival. They are picturesque, weather blasted freaks of trees, and they get even more spectacular after they die, and the wind sculpts them into modern art.

Beautiful lakes dot the sparse landscape, and some hold trout. We caught a bunch one day, under the sparkling high altitude sun. The photo is of Dan holding his spinning rod in both hands, and the fish are strung along the rod, and my friend has the big grin on his face.

Dan was on the hospice bed, in his living room, and the morphine was doing its job so that he didn't have to know about it, when I brought him the photo. He awoke while we were there, and I showed him the photo, and he remembered, and the grin came one more time. His wife placed the photo in a frame, and it lives there to this day. It's not an Adams or a Rowell, but it captures a piece of a place and a time, and it was special.