Fire and Ice preview 7 - Sardine Lakes

Climbing higher, Scott could see grassy knolls where the footpath led. Mounting the first of these knolls, he caught first sight of Lower Sardine Lake. Impassable scree hemmed in the lake on two sides. The lake seemed to have been created when a retreating glacier dropped its rock burden, as it melted, damming the waters above to form a lake type known as a cirque lake.

Scott lay down his daypack and walked back down the trail to capture the explosion of water from the rock wall with his wide-angle lens. He walked a little farther down and caught an exposure of the cascades falling off Mount Lewis. He captured the surrounding elevations. He shot a picture of the rim of the lake and Great Basin, as it spread all the way past Salt Lake City. He found the prettiest flowers growing out from a clump of rocks.

Scott thought of the biker he had met in Big Oak Flat, as he tied a hook on his spinning rod with a single pea for bait. He was now grateful for having bought bottled peas rather than cans. He could reseal them. He cast his line. He hoped to relax for a while and regain his strength. Before he could say “Robinson Jeffers and John Muir” he felt a bite. Boy! This was a hell of a lot better than fishing down at the lake. He brought in a beautiful Golden Trout. God, if only Sean had been there. They both could have been proud.

Scot reconsidered. Sean would not have liked this. He would have stopped at Walker Lake and scorned his father for being such a pussy that he would climb a mountain in order to catch naïve fish. He would have stopped at the first lake that gave him a bite and would never have been curious about what the trail could lead to. If he got as far as this lake, he never would have wondered about Upper Sardine Lake. That was a basic difference. Scott had always been curious. What’s around the bend? What’s at the end of a highway?

Sean only liked McDonald’s hamburgers. Once, Scott had taken him to a Wendy’s. Sean had behaved as though Scott had taken him inside a satanic church. Scott liked Wendy’s. He even liked sushi, though he could seldom afford it.

Scott now knew he could catch food. This knowledge gave him the gumption to push on farther.

The trail to Upper Sardine Lake proved short. When Scott arrived he checked the altimeter again--almost 10,000 feet. He had never climbed so high before. He looked out from the brim of the lake. Lower Sardine Lake rippled below. Mono Lake glittered below like a small gem, unbelievably far down.

A sheer rock wall formed the south side of Upper Sardine Lake. A, sort of, tiny tropical jungle grew thick below the west wall. The very tropical looking plants grew in the shade cast in the afternoon by Mount Gibbs. Scott wondered how such tropical appearing plants could grow at such great altitude. Of course, they were not really tropical. He wondered why they looked tropical.

The way up led to the northwest, up a narrow glacier-blocked passage. The glacier made the climb higher problematic.

He continued to fish as he pondered the glacier. He could use the protein. He caught two more golden trout with such ease that the sport seemed unfair for the fish.

Scott strolled away from the lake and found some thick grass growing nearby. He had gardened as a youth. These shoots looked just like onions. Curiosity overcame him. He tore some of the blades out of the soil. He chewed on them one at a time. He took care not to eat too much at once. No doubt remained in his mind. He had found wild onions. So besides the granola bars and other snacks, he now knew he could eat fresh trout and wild onions up here.

He knew the pass was close by. Even God was close. With God shining on him so favorably, he had to try. He looked at the sky. Clouds screamed by so close that they seemed as close enough to touch. Maybe he did. The breeze had picked up to downright blustery.

He hid his fishing gear from passers by and set out.

Scott owned an ice axe, which he had never used. It hung on his wall at home to create atmosphere. This was the atmosphere that the ice axe had been created for. Still there might be a way. He followed the trail to the glacier. As he got closer, he could see that the glacier had melted away from the eastern sunny wall, leaving a crevasse that swallowed him up to his thighs. He could brace the pointed end of his walking stick in the slippery icy surface and wedge one foot, and then the next, higher. Sometimes he braced with his hips or his arms against the edge of the glacier or the rock wall. When he did so, he felt the cold locked up in the ice.

The heat of the day was ebbing. The glacier responded by creaking and groaning. Scott was excited. It was the first time he had heard a glacier talk. How mystical!

The surface of the glacier was uneven--shaped like scooped out little hollows known as sun cups. The sun cups indicated that the glacier had been there for a long time, melting and freezing on the surface as the weather dictated. Scott would have time enough to build and furnish a house, waiting for this glacier to melt away.

He looked back. What he saw surprised him as to how far he had climbed above Upper Sardine Lake. The glacier was not that long, maybe a few hundred horizontal feet.

The early afternoon shade from Mount Gibbs protected it from melting away.

At last, he reached the top of the glacier.

He found himself in a sort of dry cirque that was full of large chunks of rock rubble.

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.

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.

Fire and Ice preview 4 - Hiking In

At times like these, Scott resented his father, Douglas. Douglas had smoked Camels. He had been so cheap that he had chain-smoked them to the nub with a toothpick, like doobies. Scott did not waste time with negative thoughts of Douglas. After all Douglas, born in 1900, had spent his best years in the Great Depression. Fortunately, Douglas had died when Scott was only six years old. Otherwise, instead of taking asthma medicine, Scott might have lived life in an iron lung.

Scott had begun to wheeze badly on the last upslope. The trail now tilted down. He could see through the trees to the other side of the canyon. Thank God, the trail kept going down. Scott paced himself. In another ten minutes, he began to catch glimpses of sunlight glinting off the water through the trees. The lake was close.

As he pushed on, he could see larger expanses of the lake through the trees. He slowed his pace so that he would not be noticeably gasping for breath. He did not want to appear weak if he ran into another human being. There could even be a bear waiting for him and he might have to run.

Soon he could see the near shoreline. The trail leveled off. He stood in the woods gauging the length and breadth of the lake. There was nobody in sight. There was no sign of anybody at all--no smoke--no music--no nothing.

He could hear the water lapping the shore in the breeze. Young aspens lined the shore, shaking their leaves in the gusty breeze. A duck drifted on the lake. A fish jumped out of the water about forty feet offshore.

He had the whole place to himself. His fear of finding inhospitable campers abated. He suddenly felt a need for other people. Strange things sometimes happened when there was no one around to observe, like the tree that falls silently because there are no ears to hear. He decided to camp in a shady glen, a little ways from the foot trail in case some aberrant people showed up.

Scott chose a good place for his tent, on level soil; but not in a gully; not in the sun, and not too visible. He wished there were a camp table. He hated eating off the ground. There were no boulders around where he could sit either. He could get by without a place to spread out his topographic maps. That would provide him with a deeper wilderness experience. He had wanted to lose himself in the wilderness experience. That was before he had become so tired on the trail.

Scott had packed an ultra-light folding chair. He unfolded it and sat down. At least he had a back support and his butt was raised off the ground. A Tedral tablet and some water helped the wheezing to subside. He could tell it would be a cold night. The wind suppressed the daytime temperature and the clear sky would provide no celestial blanket after dark. Autumn loomed just around the corner. Snow came in the high sierras. He broke out his ultra-light spinning rod. He fished for three hours--not a bite. He could see the fish, but he could not catch them. Scott had chosen to come here to fish, based upon Sean’s love for fishing and his own inability to hike long distances. Scott was not a good fisherman. He had hoped he could learn from Sean.

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.

Fire and Ice preview 2 - Big Oak Flat

Thick fog enveloped the apartment complex in the morning.

It was now or never. Scott showered his last shower and ate his last easy meal of Quaker granola. He stacked the dishes in a sink full of suds to keep the ants away.

He could barely carry his heavy pack down the stairs. He was not especially strong. He had had at least two hernia operations. He liked to bring his living room with him on a hike. As it was, the pack was 60 pounds. He would have packed a television if there had been room.

He drove a cheap and undependable K-Car, but he could afford little else what with child support and medical bills.

Scott drove the road to Yosemite slow and blind. The fog lifted a little going through Oakland, but settled in with a vengeance by Carquinez Straits. Scott would have thought, with all the refineries burning their waste fuel in the towering chimneys, there would have been enough heat to let in a little sunlight. Fog blanketed the San Joaquin Valley so thickly that he had to drive many stretches of the highway at 15 miles per hour.

The radio said there had been a pileup in the fog North of Fresno on Highway 99. Twenty-four cars had become involved with an 18-wheeler grocery supply truck and a full gasoline tanker. The tanker was on its side and a clean up crew attempted to offload the fuel to protect nearby streams and prevent an explosion. At least three dead bodies had been recovered. The incident had been reportedly triggered when an alcoholic woman had steered her Volkswagen across the double line into an oncoming semi. Both the Volkswagen and the semi had avoided colliding somehow, but the reactions of other drivers to avoid each other had set off a chain reaction. A field correspondent had interviewed the husband of the errant driver, who had said that he was facing bankruptcy due to her liquor bills and court costs. An officer had said that the court costs they had were nothing compared to what they would have after the damages and injuries were tabulated.

The fog offered no relief until Scott entered the foothills. It finally lifted before he arrived at Big Oak Flat.

Having crossed the foggy morass of the delta into the sunnier lower slopes of the Sierra Nevada, Scott felt he was entitled to a reward. He could not afford a champagne brunch, but he had a little money for supplies and food.

He bought a fresh supply of fish eggs and some stove fuel at the sporting goods store.

A delicatessen made submarine sandwiches. Scott bought a hot Sloppy Joe and a large Coca-Cola. He sat outside watching the traffic go by. He felt lonesome without his son to share it with.

A Honda Gold Wing pulled up to the boardwalk. A Willie Nelson look-alike climbed off with a black leather vest and a black bandana on his head. “Goin’ fishin’, huh?”

“Yeah!” Scott responded cautiously.

“Where you goin’?”

“Walker Lake--You know--Bloody Canyon!” Scott tried not to look the biker in the eyes.

“Bloody Canyon, huh. That’s a short hike in from the trailhead. You look like you’re gonna do some climbin’.”

“Yeah! I thought I might mosey up Bloody Canyon.”

“Ever been there?”

“No!”

“How long you gonna be?”

“Maybe four days!”

“Gwan! You got enough stuff for two or three weeks.”

Scott didn’t want to tell this Hell’s Angel wannabe that he had two camera bodies, four lenses, and a lot of other photographic equipment packed away. He found it easier to admit to two weeks. However, if this guy knew he would be there for two weeks, he might come by with his friends, kill him, rob him, and toss him off a cliff just for fun.

The biker’s eyes drilled into Scott’s forehead. “I said it looks like you got stuff for two weeks.”

Scott returned to the present. “Yeah--two weeks--why?”

“You look like you could need some help. You don’t look like you’re experienced with the high country. You got any peas?”

“Why peas?”

The biker pulled off his bandana and wiped road grime off his face. “You better go to the general store and get some peas. If you really plan to hike up Bloody Canyon, you’ll find two lakes¾Lower Sardine Lake and Upper Sardine Lake. Upper Sardine Lake is almost at the foot of a glacier. You can catch Golden Trout in there. It is so far out of the way, you’ll be all by yourself. Those goldies’ll bight on peas. They hardly even know what a human looks like.”

Scott finally took a good look at his new friend. “Hey you’re really being friendly. I was put off by the bike and the bandana.”

“Just because I ride a bike don’t mean I’m lookin’ for a fight.”

“What’s above Upper Sardine?”

Biker, “Well there’s a glacier on the north side leading to Mono Pass. End of Summer--it might have melted away from the wall to let you pass. Above the glacier, there’s a cliff and a rock scree. You can scale the rock scree, but it’s unstable and you might fall. You can climb the wall though. It’s only about twenty feet, but you gotta use hand and footholds to make it. You could fall offa that too. You get up past the wall and the scree and it’s a Sunday afternoon stroll to the pass. You get through the pass and you can see from Mount Lyell to Tuolumne Meadows.”

Scott, “Why are you so nice to me?”

The biker laughed. “Don’t mind my bandana, I like people.”

“You got a name?”

“My handle is Waylan.”

Waylan shook Scott’s hand and went on past the barbershop to the motorcycle shop.

Scott finished his Sloppy Joe. He crossed the street and bought two small bottles of peas. He bought bottles, because they could be resealed.

The shade of fir trees painted stripes across the road to Yosemite, like the bars of a prison window.

Butterflies still flew in and out of these shadows. He paid for a ticket at the entrance to Yosemite. The guard told him he could not drive into the valley anymore. Scott did not care. He was headed up over Tioga Pass to Nevada.

Fire and Ice preview 1 - Scott Heath

“Look, Darlene, I’ve paid all of my child support and I’ve paid half the hospital expenses for more than a decade. Why can’t you just let me slide a little this month, so I can have some money to have fun with Sean? You know my credit’s good and you’ll get paid back. It’s not as though I won’t pay his expenses while he’s with me.”

The phone on the other end went dead. The line had that buzz that meant Scott could place a new call. There was no one to call. He sat there in the late August heat and watched a lightning storm pass--the first storm of the summer and the rest of the week promised to be hot--even for Silicon Valley.

Scott Heath replaced his two-man tent with his one-man tent. He cut his food rations in half. A tear ran down his cheek.

Scott went out on the deck and cried in the rain. It was not right. That woman had run roughshod over him ever since they had married.

Scott had cheated on Darlene. She had driven him to it. She was like being married to Mother Teresa. He had subsequently been involved in a bad accident. They had been on the lam after the accident.

Darlene had saved all of Scott’s paychecks for her get away. He had tried to make up for the single time he had cheated on her. He had gotten a new job working for a heavy manufacturing company that made armored vehicles. He had been busy helping to develop new armor plating that could take a direct hit from a top of the line Russian tank and survive. She had thought he was cheating again. Again! There had never been an again! He had no longer loved her. He had only been working hard for his children. When she had left, she had taken all of his money from six months wages, minus only the money that had been spent for food and rent.

Darlene had left on a Greyhound Bus. She had known he could have gone to the authorities. He could have gotten a restraining order to keep her in the state. She had known that if he did, they would catch up to him about the accident. If she would have done her part, the accident might not have occurred.

After Darlene had left, she had taken him to court for non-payment of child support. What a joke. He had not had any food in the refrigerator, nor had he had any money for lunch when she had left. Luckily, he had been reimbursed per diem for his company trip to New Mexico, on the following day. He had been able to buy enough Campbell’s tomato soup to survive until his next paycheck. As the mail came in, he had found out that he had become six-months in arrears on all of his payments. Child support! What a joke.

The authorities had tracked him down and served him with papers for the accident. That had been seventeen years ago for God’s sake. She had kept thousands of miles and thousands of dollars between him and his son all this time.

Scott put on ‘Sketches of Spain’, by Miles Davis, and turned up the tape deck. He returned to the living room floor where he had assembled his camping paraphernalia.

He organized his possibles in his pack the best he could.

As the sun lowered and the shadows lengthened, he went out on the deck and cried.

After while, Scott saw his best friend Terri drive up and park. When his tears had dried, he went over to see her.

Terri, “Son’s not coming, huh?”

Scott, “Darlene bleeds me of every penny, and all I get is a slap in the face.”

Terri, “Well, you need to get away by yourself and relax. Bring me something when you come back.”

Scott, “What do you want?”

Terri, “I don’t know. Use your imagination. I’ll pray for you.”

“It’s not fair. She gets all the tax write-offs and all I get is bills. She gets to go to the events at school and I just hear about the doctor bills.” Scott looked out her window at the 3,000-foot Santa Cruz Mountains. “Well, I’ve never been high before. I wish Sean was with me to enjoy it.”

Terri, “Write down where you’re going and when you expect to be back. If you don’t come back I’ll notify the authorities.”

Scott, “What are you gonna do?”

Terri, “Oh, I might have my friend over from Wal-Mart with her husband and kid.”

Scott, “They hate me.”

Terri, “You’re hateful.”

Scott ventured, “I’ll think of you every night before I go to sleep.”

Terri, “Any bears up there?

Scott, “I don’t think they go that high.”

Terri, “You ready to go?”

Scott, “I can move up my schedule and leave in the morning. One good thing!”

She, “What’s that?”

He, “Well, if he’s not going, I don’t have to carry a bunch of stuff he likes.”

“Why is that good?”

He frowned. “He likes canned goods and I like freeze-dried. The space and weight saved can be used to carry a zoom lens a macro lens and an extra camera body, not to mention a lightweight tripod.”

She, “That’s all you have--your camera?”

He, “Well I have you for my best friend.”

They kissed and hugged.

She cried a tear. “I’ll pray for you every night.

Scott wrote down his destination “Walker Lake and Bloody Canyon” on a paper towel and set Terri’s vodka bottle on the note so it would not blow away.

He returned to his apartment and finished packing. He had three first aid kits and they took up so much room. All right, the big one got packed. It would not be good--up there alone and no first aid.

He went to bed and turned on KGO talk radio with the sleep button so it would go off in 90 minutes. The conservative host was on, yapping about husbands who don’t take care of their kids. Scott thought about smashing the radio, but then he would not have a radio.

Sleep did not come easily. Scott’s apprehension grew as he contemplated hiking so far out, alone in the wilderness. Scott’s son, Sean, had picked the needles out of his arm two years ago when he had fallen in jumping cholla cactus. Before that, Scott’s dog had saved him from hiking right off a cliff and a hundred foot drop, when he was hiking at night. His dog was gone now and his son could not or would not come.