We’re at the top of the world. A vertiginous view surrounds us on every side. The only thing nearly as high is this cone’s twin, about five hundred yards to the north. We sit on the flat rock of an old foundation, evidenced by a few rocks mortared together, some rusty nails and some actual flat surfaces, a rarity in this high and dynamic country. Ahead to the west is an almost shear drop, a couple thousand feet into a boulder-strewn canyon filled with green. Rising up out of the far side of this canyon is another ridge, a knife’s edge of impossible drops and towering spires, weathered and craggy. Beyond it more hills, more valleys, more forests for perhaps 15 miles, then the Pacific.
The sun is starting to set, the colors turn golden and the shadows long. A steady wind from the southwest keeps it cool, cool enough to wear a wool sweater AND a blanket. The wind is the only sound. We’ve already eaten and enjoyed the variety of views offered from this height. Every angle is down, even the knife’s edge trail that led us here. We each find a spot that fits the contours of our bodies and set our camp pads down, ready to watch the sunset over the ocean, or rather, over the clouds which are hanging over the ocean thousands of feet below us. As the sun gets lower and the temperature drops, so does the wind. The fog on the Pacific begins to creep over the hills far below us, flowing through the saddles on the various ridges and filling the valleys further and further east with a milky white glow that looks almost solid. The sky darkens and the first bright planet is visible. The sun sets with it’s resplendent display, the pinks and oranges reflecting on the hills around us.
As night closes in, I set my sleeping accoutrements on the highest flat ledge. This night I will enjoy the stars without bug-hindering mesh between me and them. My view is unobstructed by anything save the slight haze; I can actually lay on my stomach and still see stars on either horizon. Glorious night! A few shooting stars, a waning moon (whose rise I missed by about an hour due to sleep), the fresh air and wilds all around me. Predawn colors were nice, the sunrise not very dynamic but the feeling of the first rays warming me in my cocoon was most pleasant.
What else on this trip? Lots of hours of hiking, we went around 35 miles or so, mostly uphill. We saw a Western Rattlesnake with 12-14 rattles and a body that was bigger around than my bicep, as well as a small one next to the trail. A bobcat loped away from us at one point, it’s always nice to see the big cats. TONS of banded pigeons and mountain quail, they all looked delicious. Several other snakes, including a couple garter snakes (I submit a name change for these, they should be called “skunk snakes”) and what was probably a gopher snake. We ate lots of miner’s lettuce with our meals; it was a nice bonus to add fresh greens to our diet. Fields of small wildflowers were everywhere, purple, yellow, white, red, orange, the heady smell emanating from them was spectacular. The sound of the birdsong, the feel of the sun, the cold on Tuesday morning, the smell of the flowers and sage during our horrendous off-trail adventure, these all fade too quickly. I sat and tried to absorb these things, the feelings and the smells, the sights and sounds, and REALLY understand them, really become a part of it and have all of it become a part of me. It works, for a time, but it fades, fades much too quickly. Perhaps that’s best, it drives me to go out there again, to experience nature at her most dynamic and sublime, to step into that flow again and become a part of something much greater.
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