Hiking in the high Sierras this summer was spectacular. After months of record snowfall lasting into early June, the summer run off was "off the charts". In mid-August, when creek beds are normally dry, the creeks were swollen with chilled pure mountain water rushing by with a thunderous sound on their way to the Feather River. I saw so many waterfalls that I lost count. The vegetation, the shimmering lakes, the wildflowers and animal life were all in full nature's regalia in late summer splendor. It was an amazing hiking season! And it is still there to see if the spirit moves you.
On one particular hike, I was hell bent to summit Mount Washington in the Feather River area. Not an especially tall peak but one that ascends almost vertically for 2500feet from the trail head. The views of the valley floor from the ascending trail and the overpowering smell of the towering ancient pines, firs and sequoias interspersed with wispy aspen stalks all canopied by a brilliant blue sky, pose the question: is this heaven? No, but it's close. It's Feather River Country. A wild country I have loved since my baby blues first laid eyes on it almost 28 years ago. And Mount Washington is just one jewel on the Feather River necklace.
Along the 6 mile hike up I saw more animals than people. In fact, I saw no one and heard no one on the path. No people. Where in this world can you go and not run into another human being for 6 daylight hours, particularly, in the anthill called California? Heck, there's more human activity on Mount Everest at 28,000feet than on some of these peak trails in the Sierras.
The path lay ahead...dusty footprint after dusty footprint uphill. Eyes down. Breathing moderate. Longing for another summit. Navigating each step carefully amongst the rocks, ledges, edges, holes, mud, snowpack, streams and snake holes. I was stoked. It was me, my safety whistle and a backpack of essentials alone in the middle of the wild kingdom. And I loved every minute of it until...
About half mile from the summit, I was stopped dead in my tracks amidst all of God's glory when I saw to my crazed amazement a huge pile of newly excreted bear scat. It was so new, it smelled god-awful. How did I know it was bear poop? It was the biggest diameter waste I had ever seen in years of hiking. What's the biggest animal up here? Hmmmm, black bear. Black bears have big anuses. Right? Next question. If this is a fairly recent pile like the last 30 minutes, where is thee who crap that? Gulp. Double gulp. Lions, tigers and bears oh my!!!!
Well I didn't wait around for the answer. I hightailed it down that path so fast, I burned rubber on the path not to the mention the skidmarks in my own undergarments. I kept telling myself, if I survived, I didn't want to be on the Today Show from some Podunk clinic talking to Ann Curry about how my face was ripped off my skull from Smokey the Bear because I wanted to notch another mountain ascent. That wouldn't have gone over too well at home.
Sadly, I didn't get to the top of the mountain. Happily, I'm writing this blog instead of possibly Marian making funeral arrangements and explaining to people, "we never found, Danny, that is, his body. But we did find his RoadID in a pile of bear feces on top of the mountain."
Later that night back in the cozy and semi-safe confines of our cabin, guess who visited me? Check out the second photo above. I guess he wanted another shot at me...
Well, I'll see ya next year big fella and I'll have .357 with me. So go ahead, make my day in '12.
Isn't hiking the best?
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