Adventure Stories

We, he and I, are heading up the side of a mountain. We are far from a beaten path. We are deep in the wilderness, like two ants wandering through a pathless sea of granite. We are, by choice, by design, days away from anything that isn’t covered in dirt, anything that isn’t feral, anything that doesn’t rise with the halo of the sun and sink into the slumber of the stars.

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Far off the beaten path the trees grow taller than you can imagine. Their steepled caps pierce the sky; their green heads and arms toss and clap and bow in reverence to the swish-swish-swish of the wind; their bodies, beautifully brown, are lined with thick black veins, where the blood of earth pumps in from root to heartwood. In the sharp drag of a deep breath, fresh and clean, a dank scent presses itself upon your lungs and drifts, like a flock of birds, across the ribbed landscape of your tongue. Crushed pine needles; grub-filled dirt black as tar; the soft floral of wild mint; the quench of life and moistness of death and decay.

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Recently, after a long streak of staying close to home, I ventured out to the Eastern Sierra Mountains. I wanted to return to specific landscapes, to Lyell Canyon and Rush Creek, for both personal and creative reasons. I wanted to return to a trail I'd walked seven summers ago.

It was a short trip, a turn and burn as we say.

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It was the middle of the afternoon when the sun disappeared. One moment it was there, clear beams warm on my skin, and the next moment it was gone. Somehow, in a span of time so short it seemed immeasurable, life had drained from the day, as though the world dropped into a shadow.

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We’d stumbled into the forest at sunset the day before, terribly exhausted, and desperate for a couple hours of sleep. We needed sleep, we’d been awake for close to 32 hours - but who's counting? And, as is always the case on our big hiking trips, we had a big climb the next day, 6,000ft of elevation to gain in the first 8 miles, to be exact - but again, who’s counting?

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I was trudging through the grassy meadowland as the sun began to set. Golden light filtered through scattered clouds, as bright beams of light transformed themselves into white sparkles on the lake, and danced across the surface. The water, which had been a beautiful blue when we arrived an hour earlier, began to turn as black as tar as night inched closer. My steps were slow and calculated, as to not break my ankle on a shadow or a hole or a rock; but the very best of my attention was transfixed by the lake…

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The wind was beginning to shift and a ghostly chill, dry and crisp, hung heavy in the air as we packed our gear into our backpacks. The trailhead parking lot was empty, as expected; a storm watch usually keeps most people cuddled up at home, save for Zack and me. It has been a very long year, full of unimaginable losses and outrageous change, and we’ve been enduring it all at home. This short trip was our first chance to get away, to be free, to pay our respects; and nothing, not even the fright of a snow storm was going to keep us from it.

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