It was another beautiful morning. I was early to rise with anticipation of what this day would offer. I wanted to cover a fair amount of miles, set up my next camp in daylight and still be able to play on the sand dunes in Death Valley this morning. I wanted it all and why not? The dunes were magnificent in the early morning light. I was not a stranger to large amounts of sand piled high in one spot. I grew up on the east coast and loved to play at the beach whenever possible even if that meant sitting in traffic to and from the coast on any given weekend day in summer. The hot and sticky drives on humid days were worth their weight in sand, the sand lining my ear canals, the sand under my nails, between my toes, stuck to my eyelids, crunching between my teeth and matted to my scalp. Yes, there is nothing like a day at the beach. But this was different. For one thing it was spring and there was little traffic and I was a very long way from the coast.
The day promised to be hot but the morning air was still comfortable as I made my way out onto the sprawling dunes. Light and shadow allowed contours large and small to be visible in a mosaic of patterns sculpted by wind. The sand between my toes was soft and I really did not mind if it tagged along on my journey to the Sierras. As I marched or perhaps sauntered in the softness of curved sand I glanced back from time to time to see how far I had traveled. It is the luxury of sand dunes to leave an obvious route creating an ease in knowing from where you had come. Footsteps winding to and fro, up and down and sometimes around an occasional shrub that managed to get a foothold on life in this wacky environment. Mine were not the only tracks in the sand. There were trails of tiny feet and tails and others still in the shape of a repeating letter s created by a creature having no feet at all. Each of us, parading in this uncommon land with the common desire to stay whole in the night, feed our bellies and move on. Unlike the snakes and smallest mammals, I took photographs of flowers blooming lovely in this harsh but wildly beautiful landscape. My friends, who left these tracks, may beg to differ with my concept of harsh, perhaps they would argue that the humid, densely populated environment of my youth, qualifies, as harsh.
Kern River Valley
I drove into the unknown ready for any surprise that lay around the bend. The road out of Death Valley led to desolate highway before winding up past some Joshua Trees eventually gaining enough elevation to cool the air and grow pines. As quick as I went up, I went down into the green winding hills along the Kern River. I jammed on the brakes when I saw the sign for the Audubon Center. It would be a good opportunity to stretch my legs and indulge in the sounds and pleasures of spring birdsong. I strolled for only a short time along the path before witnessing species in their mating plumage. I was alone on the trail with the exception of one other binocular clad individual. I offered up pleasantries as we passed along route and he offered the truth in return, “ Every day that is spent birding is a good day” and so I smiled knowing that I belonged to a fraternity of nerds.
Sequoia Kings Canyon
When making my excursion back to Santa Fe a week or so earlier I ditched my snowshoes. A taste of spring left little desire to be bundled up in winter clothing. Anywhere there might be the possibility of cold nights or days seemed daunting. This of course was irrational, as I had not spent one uncomfortable night in my tent, even when temperatures dipped into the twenties. I had seen an extended forecast for Sequoia Kings Canyon and knew it would not be flip-flop weather, yet the lure of the Park was irresistible.
I would enter the Park from the south entrance near Three Rivers and felt comfort in the fact that I would be able to sleep below three thousand feet. It was sunny and warm in the valley. I drove along a road lined with orange groves. The scent in the air was ridiculously sweet and intoxicating. Pushing hard against a desire to stop the car, get out and be held captive by citrus blossoms, I reluctantly kept my foot pressed upon the accelerator pedal. I was almost to the Park entrance. In the distance I could see the mountains. The scenery was lovelier with each mile. I traveled through roadsides blanketed with oaks and flowers. When I arrived at the Park, the Visitor Use Assistant, a.k.a. fee collector, noticed my Bandelier National Monument parking sticker and asked if I was “Park Service”. “Yes.” Apparently thrilled by another “parkie” she suggested which campground I might enjoy and offered up sights not top be missed. I took her advice on both and was not disappointed. I doubt there is anything in Sequoia Kings Canyon that could disappoint.
The campground was green and damp from earlier rain. As soon as I exited my car I encountered a notice to immediately put all food and fragrant items in the supplied bear box. I complied not wishing to have my car doors and windows peeled away by some marauding black bear with an acquired taste for human food. After stuffing myself and then the bear box with food I sauntered in the last light of the day. The trail followed an endorphin-laden creek rushing, tumbling, gushing and swerving around rocks and shore. The water was clear and cold. The bank decorated with flowers. It was spring and I was in the foothills of the Sierras.
April 16
I awoke with great anticipation and a heart filled with joy. I broke camp early, eager to see large trees gracing the backs of mountains. The air was cool and grew cooler as I drove higher in elevation. It did not take long before I reached snow and lots of it! The sight made me especially grateful for my snow free campsite. The snow was deep! I know this from the direct experience of post holing along the fair weather trails leading to some of the most magnificent forms of life to adorn the planet. There they were, the sequoias, surrounding me, and towering above. I was alone with the trees. I dashed through the forest as best I could, stumbling in snow, with admiration for the age and stature of giants.
I drove from grove to grove chilled and delighted. I pulled into a parking area that led to some of the largest trees. I walked across the parking lot to take some pictures. The memory card filled with the first click of the shutter. I had another card and began to run back to the car to find it. A couple just arriving yelled out “are you running to stay warm?” I turned and smiled, “ No, I am running because I can’t contain my enthusiasm for all this beauty.” I was giddy, absolutely giddy with delight. Before driving out of the Park I explored everywhere that the early season would allow.
I was saddened to leave the beauty of the trees but I had many more miles to travel before resting my head upon a soft pillow in Napa. I wound down out of the mountains from the northern entrance and once again began to smell citrus blossoms. This time I hit my brakes coming to a halt in front of a fruit stand where a burst of orange sugar collided with my tongue. These were the biggest and sweetest oranges I had ever tasted. These oranges were a remedy to my camp food cuisine.
I bought very little in the way of souvenirs or luxury items on my sojourn but now I eagerly reached for my wallet grabbed for cash and happily received a jumbo bag of fruit that would provide many happy California memories. A voice disturbing my reverie was directed my way. A gentleman standing beside me, wanting to make conversation asked where I was from. “Santa Fe.” He lit up hearing my response and told me about is love for the “City Different.” Once upon a time he had been a truck driver and spent many happy hours in the city of adobe, strung with ristras and bathed in blue skies. I understood his fondness for my home. Santa Fe is a city like no other but I was currently fixated on fruit not mariachi bands. I sampled a plump raisin and immediately reached for more money. “ I will take a bag please.” Sweet, plump organic raisins, yum! Having more interest in fruit than conversation my kindred Santa Fean spirit got into his car and drove away. “Aw, he is just lonely since his wife died, comes hanging around here almost every day.”
When I returned to the fruit stand I did not see Frank. “Over here,” he hollered. Frank was squatting in the shade under an old wooden stand behind his truck. I drank my midday meal squatting in the shade beside him. He told me how he had met his wife, and how he hoped his son might eventually marry the sweet young woman that lived with her mother in Albuquerque. He told me the story of how he acquired his New Mexican bracelet. I listened and smiled. I don’t normally stop on the side of the road to drink beer with strangers, but by the time I had taken my last sip, I was hard pressed to call Frank a stranger. Breaking bread together, or in this case fruit and beer, is what makes the world go round.
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