Fire and Ice preview 6 - Bloody Canyon

Scott hiked west along the lakeside trail. It began as a walk in the park. Quaking aspens lined the shore. They waved at him on with their friendly leaves. The forest remained his steady companion on his left, offering cool shade. He listened to the lake lap the shore as he walked. As he neared the west end of the lake, the trail left the lake and traversed the perimeter of a bog, with marsh plants growing by the edge of the lake. Towards the farthest distance from the lake, he found a beautiful, pastel-colored Tough-Leaved Iris, requiring a portrait in Ektachrome.

The trail turned back towards the lake and began to climb. Water gurgled, teasing stones.

The trail followed the southern stream bank.

A fast hiker from Berkeley, California, startled Scott. The hiker only had time to say he was in a hurry to make it to Tuolumne Meadows before a lightning storm moved in from the south.

Scott passed a sign that announced Ansel Adams Wilderness. Now he knew he was in God's Country. Nothing could go wrong. He tried to imagine how it had looked on the first day Ansel Adams had seen it.

A group of three hikers passed. Scott asked them about the weather. They said they had not heard of any bad weather other than maybe a cold front moving in from the north. They did not have much to say. They were from Germany and spoke relatively little English. Scott pondered how much German he would be able to speak if confronted by hikers on a trail in the German Alps--not much, he had to admit. They wore little lederhosen and funny little hats. They seemed to have much greater lung capacity than Scott. The stream cascaded white off rocks below the, now, very steep trail.

The trail crossed the river by way of heavy rocks. If the trail would end on this side, as his topographic map showed, Scott would just as soon cross as low as possible, before the rock grew steeper and less stable. He balanced himself with his walking stick, occasionally planting it in the upstream riverbed to keep from falling in. The trail on the north side of the creek became more rigorous than that on the south side. He soon came to regret the crossing. To the north of the creek, he found himself walking more and more across rock scree, with no protection from the hot sun and rising wind.

Scott had to slow his pace, to recover his breath. This side of the canyon had some advantages. He could now see across Bloody Canyon to the south side, and scant vegetation permitted him to see the stream. As the distance to the river increased, so did his thirst. He found himself drinking more and more of the water he was carrying. He hoped to find potable water higher up.

The trail mellowed to a steady, but strenuous, climb. He remembered his hiker’s altimeter in his daypack. He took it out and read it. He had climbed to 9,500 feet. Not bad for an asthmatic, even if he did need to pace himself.

The trail became a little less barren and a little more like an alpine path. Flowers grew here and there amongst the broken rocks. Clouds had moved in from the North Pacific to modify the heat. There was a God.

Scott rounded a bend. Up ahead appeared what looked like a rock wall with water shooting from it as if from a fire hydrant. The white fountain, charged with air, shot out almost twenty feet from the rock wall, before plummeting headlong to the streambed far below. As the trail passed near the side of the fountain, he heard a mighty hissing, as from a large liquid snake, as the undulating fluid rushed full force through the sharp granite rocks that served as its spout.

Climbing higher, he saw that the fall originated from an extremely narrow micro chasm that it had carved in the rock.