09/05/04 Report: "Trans-Sierra Crossing, Part 5"
In the morning the mystery of the wandering stock was
revealed. Up the trail came a lone figure, moving
fast. He wore a narrow cowboy hat, turned down
sharply at the front and back and dark with sweat.
The lower half of his face was draped with an enormous
mustache that flowed a proud two inches off his chin
on either side of his mouth. His countenance was
stern. His shirt was flannel, tucked into worn jeans,
all filthy. A large brass buckle adorned his belt and
a huge knife in a sheath hung at his side. A leather
grain bag slung over his shoulder was his only kit.
The bag appeared to be empty. He was straight off the
pages of a Louis L’Amour novel. In a vague eastern
bloc accent he inquired of us whether we had seen his
animals. One of the ladies in the group told him we
had and when. He nodded gruffly and strode up the
trail and out of sight.
photo: Pete Weber
We saw him again later in the day. I was hiking in
the lead and came upon him resting on a fallen log
beside the trail. He regarded me with clear blue eyes
and asked me if I could spare any cigarettes. I gave
him some and he lit up silently. The group came along
one by one and we gathered around as he told us an
incredible story. He was a packer, name of Max, out
of Cottonwood Pack Station. He had packed two
biologists in to the Kern Canyon. He was to wait for
them while they did their work and pack them back out
after four or five days. But his stock got loose when
they found a hole in a drift fence on the second day.
I pulled out my map and he indicated a spot that was
no less than twenty-five trail miles from where we
sat. He had tracked the fugitive horse and four mules
for three days, frequently following their hoof prints
far off the trail, up and down torturous terrain. The
only food he had was a small amount of grain. He had
no jacket, no sleeping bag, no canteen. The soles of
his riding boots were almost completely unstitched
from the leather and he was forced to walk on the
outsides of his feet. I offered him some jerky and a
Clif Bar, which he casually accepted. I asked if I
could take his picture and he scoffed, “In these
boots? Hell no.”
.
We stopped for lunch at Crabtree Meadow after which I
was enlisted to carry most of the tents up to Guitar
Lake in advance of the group in order to secure the
only campsite large enough to accommodate our number.
As I departed with the tents and one of the clients
who wished to accompany me, Max was seen bareback
riding his wayward horse with the four delinquent
mules in tow. He had apparently discovered them at
long last grazing in Crabtree Meadow. I hastily
snapped a photo as he went past. Guitar Lake sits
just above timberline at the western base of Mount
Whitney and is the base camp of choice for those who
wish to climb the mountain from that side. I arrived
in a sweat just in time to snag the desired campsite
and I hastily erected the tents, drawing dirty looks
from several parties I had passed on the trail and
that arrived after me to find the prime spot occupied.
The "Summit Briefing" at Guitar Lake with Mt. Whitney in the background.
Used toilet paper is by far the most abundant form of
litter to be found on the trails of this region and
Guitar Lake, as beautiful and dramatic as it is,
featured this form in the most abundance of anywhere I
saw. The place is badly in need of a pit toilet I
enjoyed a couple hours of “time off” while I waited
for the group to arrive, reading my book and consuming
the remainder of my gummy worms and German raspberries
in the pleasant meadow next to the lake. When the
group arrived Jan and I briefed them on the summit
plan and prepared dinner and prepped the breakfast for
the alpine start on the following morning. As I
snuggled into my sleeping bag and gazed into the deep
starry sky I was comforted by a sound from a tent
glowing quaintly across the meadow, a sound I hadn’t
heard in many, many years. It was the sound of pure
and gleeful victory:
“Yahtzee!!”
photos property of tim bluhm.
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