Fire and Ice preview 5 - Walker

Scott gave up fishing for the day. He made himself as comfortable as he could for the night, and sat enjoying the wilderness. He had hiked in from Sawmill Canyon over a low ridge. Another low ridge lay to the North, between Walker Lake and Bohler Canyon. The eastern end of the lake could not be seen from his campsite because of a ridge that jutted out on his right. If he looked hard, he could see 11,500-foot Mount Louis. When he looked due west; he had a clear view of Mount Gibbs at a mighty 12,764 feet. Bloody Canyon crested at a lower ridge between Mount Louis and Mount Gibbs. He wished he could go up there. What must it be like up there above 10,000 feet? That was where he would find Waylan’s Sardine Lakes. Maybe, if he felt better during the next two days, he might try it.

The sun set early on the lake, with Mount Gibbs towering almost vertically above. The blue sky continued to glow. He wished he had caught a fish.

Scott found some freeze-dried lasagna and some pudding in his pack. He set about preparing dinner--not much. He longed for a Wendy’s burger and a king-sized Coca-Cola with small cubes of ice floating in it. He could swear that as the sky darkened he heard a loon out on the lake. He did not sleep well. A down bag and a tent did not compare favorably to an apartment in Silicon Valley. He continually heard things--bears or pigs maybe. He nervously shut his tent flap and keep out the wild animals.

He slept fitfully, anxious for daylight. He lay awake, while the first dim glow appeared in the east and grew. Soon Mount Gibbs burst into flame with the first sunlight to touch earth within sight. His down bag had kept his body warm and his tent had kept the night breeze off his head. Nevertheless, he suffered from a cold induced headache. His bed in Sunnyvale had never held such an appeal as now.

A purring noise grew out on the lake. A small aluminum outboard appeared from the east. Scott knew the ridge hid a dam to the east with an access road. Scott saw a man in a green fishing vest and a sky blue baseball cap through his field glasses. The man propelled his boat with a very small Evinrude motor.

Scott forced himself out of the sleeping bag. He fixed freeze-dried bacon and freeze-dried eggs. He followed this with some Cappuccino coffee out of a can full of Cappuccino powder. He longed to be cooking bacon and eggs in his kitchen back home. His back ached from leaning over the cook fire. Now, the ridge extending south from Mount Gibbs had become a bright wall.

The meal helped to warm him up. He checked the thermometer--35 degrees and the sun had been up for a while.

While he ate, the fisherman disappeared.

Scott still felt weak from the altitude, exposure to the wind, and the climb in.

He decided to do a little macro photography. He mounted his macro lens on his 3x macro extender. He rigged up his flash on a special arm that would bring it close to the subject. He attached a homemade wire frame, which he had made from a wire clothes hanger. He could pre-focus for the frame and then he could be sure that anything in the frame was in focus. He tried this for several flying insects.

Following insects around with the cumbersome frame proved exhausting. He removed the frame and got down on his hands and knees. He found many insects, black ants, black flies, vinegar flies, and damselflies. Somehow, it never seemed so backbreaking and knee-scraping to shoot butterflies back home.

He walked into the trees above camp for a healthy bowel movement. Although nobody could see him, he still felt the need to hide behind a tree.

He tried fishing for the rest of the day, but caught nothing.

Scott’s evening meal featured freeze-dried veal cutlets and powdered mashed potatoes.

The fisherman never returned and Scott saw nobody else all day long.

The night was colder than the previous night.

In the morning, Scott checked his mini-maxi thermometer and found the temperature had fallen to 28 degrees.

Scott ate the same boring breakfast as the day before. No fishermen appeared. He had the lake to himself, whether he wanted solitude or not.

Nevertheless, he felt up to climbing, just to see how far he could get. He was fairly confident nobody would disturb his campsite.

Scott hung his food from a branch in a plastic bag, concealed his camp the best he could, and prepared to leave. He had a small daypack, which he had packed inside the regular pack. In it, he put three boxes of raisins, three granola bars, dry flies and small bait hooks, three rolls of film, and a sweater and a jacket in case it got cold. He chose his best camera body, a 100 mm lens, a 35 mm lens, and a macro/tele-extender. He placed most of these things in his pack, including two plastic canteens of water, his ultra light Daiwa fishing pole, and a first aid kit. He hung his favorite camera around his neck, ready for a shoot. On the other side, he hung his bota bag full of water. He wore his felt backpacker hat. He began hiking with his L.L. Bean walking stick with a pointed metal tip. He had an optional screw on rubber tip in his pants pockets with a hunting knife. The walking stick served another role as a camera monopod with a screw mount.