Fire and Ice preview 3 - Lee Vining

Scott enjoyed photographing the lone aspens, dressed-up in their fall colors and, gracefully reflected in serene Siesta Lake.

Scott did not stop again until he reached Lake Tenaya, in the dome region. A short distance beyond Lake Tenaya, he had spotted the swaying red and blue spider webs hanging off the side of Fairview Dome. He marveled at the climbers hanging on those blue slender threads over vast smooth expanses of smooth granite.

His breathing became labored as he experienced an asthma attack.

He wished he could climb real rock faces. He had read a book on hand and foot holds, and on climbing chimneys. He felt he could climb a little wall using the toe-jam holds that he already knew--just to be able to overcome, small climbing obstacles to reach otherwise easy destinations.

Scott stopped again, at Tuolumne Meadows, to watch the peaceful Tuolumne River sliding silently beneath the thick wooden bridge. Off to the south rose Mount Lyell. In a day or so, he might see it again from a totally new perspective.

He took a few Kodachromes and moved on.

At 9,845-foot Tioga Pass, Scott left the park. A short distance below the pass, he stopped in at Tioga Pass Lodge to enjoy the view with a Heineken.

Below the Lodge, he photographed his way past Tioga Lake and Ellery Lake.

He caught sight of the undrinkable waters of Mono Lake, on the desert flats below, when he rounded some outside turns.

The highway entered a deep canyon and virtually plummeted all the way to 6,780-foot Lee Vining, a small town on the edge of Mono Lake--a drop of over 3,000 feet in about 12 miles.

Scott’s asthmatic breathing eased as he lost elevation from the pass to the edge of Mono Lake. He strolled down the main street of Lee Vining. He found a bookstore at the north end of town. He purchased a paperback by John Muir that would fit in a pocket of his pack.

Scott filled up his tank at the local gas station and headed south along the edge of the salt lake. The highway began to drop. Within a few miles, he reached a sign that read:

“SAW MILL CANYON ROAD -- WALKER LAKE à.”

Walker Lake, named after the famous mountain man, was one of two Walker Lakes. The better known larger lake was to the east and just north of the town of Hawthorne, Nevada.

Scott followed the turnoff towards the smaller Walker Lake, just southwest of Mono Lake, California.

The dirt road climbed rapidly into a narrowing valley. Roads like this caused the water temperature to go up in the engine of his old Dodge K-Car. The car rode low and scratched the high rocks with its undercarriage. He hoped he could reach the trailhead before the engine overheated.

The road curved to the right to re-cross the large talus slope. He spotted the red head, yellow body, and black tail and wings of a Western Tanager in a small piñon tree. He would have missed it if it had been sitting in a real tree. He knew the tanager as a harbinger of the nearby open conifer forest. It favored open conifer forests between mountains and deserts. A short drive farther over the rough dirt and gravel road, and the road climbed suddenly and steeply to the trailhead parking lot, just within the less open conifer forest.

Scott set the brake, turned off the radio, and killed the overheating engine. Dust from the road had turned his white K-Car to a ruddy tan. He opened the door and let the forest in--air fresh with the scent of pines and cooler than the desert floor near Mono Lake. The quiet filled the void left by the engine’s roar. The engine ticked its heat away. Except for scattered birdsong and a slight brushing of pines against each other in the afternoon breeze, there was no other sound--no traffic--no tires on macadam--no brakes--no radio.

He looked around the trailhead.

Only one other vehicle used the space--a bronco. He worried about hoodlums breaking into his car. Then he reconsidered. What hoodlums would follow that bumpy dirt road all the way up here? Besides, no one could even see traffic on this road.

Nobody knew Scott was here, except Terri--and the biker. He hoped she had found the note he left her--the note that told her where he would be. What if she had not seen it? What if she had thrown it away? She could not have thrown it away. Now he began to worry. She never cleaned. He had forgotten to specify that it was Walker Lake, California--not Walker Lake, Nevada. She was probably well on her way to drinking herself into a vodka induced deep slumber by now.

He took time to ensure that the radiator had not popped a leak and that the engine was not dripping oil. He wondered where the driver of the Bronco had gone. Maybe they would be neighbors.

He broke out his unforgiving Pivettas and lashed them on to replace of his cheap soft driving shoes. He removed the pack from the passenger seat and carried the gut breaking mass over to a granite boulder. He sat on the boulder and backed into the shoulder straps.

Maybe it was just as well Sean was not here. If Sean had not harped on it during the ride he would have now. “If you really want a hernia why don’t you just find a job as a car jack? You could probably make more money and not have to be late on my child support. yak . . . yak . . . yak.”

Scott slipped into the pack straps and tried to stand. God it was heavy. When he felt the full weight on his shoulders, he vowed to try to pack smaller packs in the future. Was it really that important to carry a lens for shooting vinegar flies, a lens for shooting canyons, a lens for shooting big horns, and a lens for shooting a never to be found nymphet on the trail across the canyon? He adjusted the waist belt support and snapped it shut. He had gained weight since his last time out.

Each step across the trailhead hurt. He tried to calculate how far he had gone and how far he had to go, before he ever reached the trail.

Considering how far he had driven up from the desert floor, Scott was surprised at how much of the trail was still up hill. Downhill stretches existed, but not enough of them. The trees closed in, allowing only small rays of scattered sunlight to filter through. Maybe he was on the wrong trail. If Sean were here, he would never admit it; but alone, with no Sean and no dog, those questions raised their ugly heads. What if the lake had been drained or closed due to contamination. What if there had been a forest fire.

The lake, if it existed, would be just below 8,000 feet--more that one thousand feet higher than Lee Vining. His lungs could feel the difference, especially with a 60-pound pack on his back.