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Rock clattered down from the red-tinged headwall, cracking against other stones and long-buried bedrock. It burst into clouds of smaller fragments, speckled by mud and moss and lichen. The rolling roar of its crumbling descent reverberated off the surrounding walls, slapping back and forth until it seemed to originate from every direction. Each echo came back slightly distorted, like mirror reflections in a carnival fun house.
A lone figure looked up from the basin below, squinting toward the source of the clamor. Everywhere he saw motion — in the churning gray clouds that rolled like ocean surf, in torrents of water cascading off eroded terraces that once played host to grand glaciers — but his straining eyes lacked the fidelity to find the one boulder tumbling among the mass of rain-wetted rock.
Sweat and condensate danced in his mussed hair as he peered at the mountain, occasional droplets sneaking away down his neck like young lovers in search of private corners. He breathed hard. His heart thumped like a smith's hammer on the anvil, pushing molten heat through his veins. At his feet, streams coalesced from the surrounding cliffs. The muddy fingers of rain water were tinged the color of dried blood.
It were as if the mountain itself had bled.
Between the Storms by ashergrey, on Flickr
The Saturday of July 13th dawned overcast and cool. A breeze slithered through the sage and lodgepole on the north slope. Pre-dawn had already come and gone, as had several cycles on the alarm clock's snooze. With a click and wheeze the propane-fired heater grumbled to life, spewing warmer air into the trailer. Already behind schedule, I tossed the afghan off the bed and stumbled onto my feet. Splitting the blinds with my fingers, I peeked outside. Flat gray clouds dominated the sliver of northern sky visible through the small window. But blue patches appeared to be waging a pitched battle in the south, driving back the onslaught of gloom.
The forecast had been poor even before leaving Salt Lake the night prior. Undeterred, I'd decided to drive so far as Uintalands, where I planned sleep before assessing conditions first-hand come morning. Now, that morning had come and I found myself no more certain as to what I should do.
Sullen, I wielded a plastic spoon and scarfed down a bowl of cold cereal before dressing and stepping out into the dew-decked meadow.
Getting to that place had come in increments. Maybe I'll take a drive up the Mirror Lake Highway this weekend had grown into maybe I'll do an overnight at the property Friday night. But it's torturous to drive all that way without shouldering a pack and putting feet on a trail. So then the idea morphed into maybe I'll go backpacking if the weather looks good.
The weather did not look good. Not ominous or, thankfully, dangerous. But not pleasant.
Incrementalism came into play again. Maybe I'll just drive up to East Fork and see if the skies get any better.
Oh, how they did.
East Fork of the Bear by ashergrey, on Flickr
Evidence of the prior night's storm abounded along the trial. Wooden planks on the boardwalks had swollen. Paintbrush and other wildflowers flaunted their color.
I skipped around the wide bogs formed by rain and hooves. I turned up my nose at the putrid stew of mud and splattered dung, cursing the cattle, cursing the cowpokes and cursing the Forest Service.
I cursed the sky too as those blue expanses once again turned gray, vanishing as phantasms. Mother Nature has a grifter's grin. She'll flash you an enticing smile while holding a knife at the small of her back.
Taking shelter from the rain near the vacated homes of tie hacks, I held staring contests with the cattle. My voice bellowed across wide meadows at the beasts, castigating them for spoiling such superb places. They regarded me with caution but did not move, allowing their mass to dictate which of us controlled the confrontation.
Moo by ashergrey, on Flickr
More head were scattered up the basin. At one point I paused to listen as a large steer bawled from the edge of a meadow, its long moos ascending in pitch. At the opposite end of the meadow a young buck mule deer froze, making eye contact with me. I'm sure he felt me a greater threat than the wailing brute, though I meant him no harm. I'd have shot him, but only with my camera.
Another cow caught me unawares as I rounded a corner, muttering to myself about some matter or other. Another wave of rain had started to patter on the nylon of my pack cover when I spotted it standing astride the trail. Our shared path crossed an elevated shoulder — thick brush clung to the steep slopes on either side, making circumvention unlikely. The mother eyeballed me with one side of her broad face as a calf stumbled up alongside her.
"Move it, stupid cow."
She only stared back, doubtless thinking make me. I clapped my hands and stomped my feet, but did not advance. Maintaining that distance came not from fear, but prudence. No mother appreciates a man making unwelcome advances in the presence of her child.
A few well-aimed rocks finally prodded the pair into moving. They moseyed up the trail as the rain increased its patter, finally crashing through the brush when the trail-side slope leveled out somewhat.
My path veered off to the opposite side — east — soon afterward, ascending the Left Hand Fork. Sprinkles became showers became squalls by the time my feet reached the top of the switchbacks. Shrugging off my pack, I found a dry spot beneath a single pine and shoved my spine up against the trunk.
Falls on the East Fork by ashergrey, on Flickr
The stream fell away just to the right, dropping off the first cascade of a waterfall into an inviting pool. For what seemed a great while I stared at it, hearing the atonal chaos of the churning water obliterate what thoughts occupied my mind. The sound drowned out the rain and the occasional jet roaring overhead some 30,000 feet distant. But it did not drown out a high-pitched clamor that rattled like a wind chime on the breeze.
It must have occurred many times before the sound at last registered in my brain. When it did, when my senses had attuned to the environment they way they never do in the city, I saw it. A little bird flitted up and down the waterway. It flew back and forth like an athlete running ladders, disappearing at times over the edge of the waterfall. That's when the wind chime came.
Crawling forth from my rain shelter, I peeked over the brink.
Lunchtime for the American Dipper family by ashergrey, on Flickr
A small, well-concealed nest sat nestled just off the water at the foot of the falls. The ingenuity of the abode shamed me. It had been before my eyes the entire time, but so expertly designed I had not seen it. Each time the adult bird visited the nest with some bug or grub, three little beaks strained out from the opening. Their necks stretched out, trembling with each hungry cheep! There then was the source of the chimes.
Battlements by ashergrey, on Flickr
Skies cleared again, but again only briefly. No sooner had I pushed off for the second half of the hike than rain, thunder and hail sent me scrambling into the brush for cover again. Now the clouds dropped, obscuring the peaks and blanketing the basin. The wet exposed skin of my arms turned clammy. Little white stones battered leaves and branches, then quickly melted in muddy puddles. The whip-crack of thunder not far overhead made the ground shake.
In between such bouts, my boots slogged through ruts. Water squished out from beneath the tread with each step. The trail became a river channel, flowing down the narrow track. Walking above the rivulets did little good, as every bough and blade of grass had been loaded with moisture.
Soaked and sullen, I at last crested the final hill and came into sight of my destination: Allsop Lake.
Then, with fairytale timing, the storm broke. Warm rays of sun streamed into the narrow valley, illuminating streamers of vapor.
In the Shadow of Yard Peak by ashergrey, on Flickr
On weary feet I circled the lake's east side, scouting for a campsite. Most of the best late-season candidates were still saturated with snowmelt. The entire area had only been free of snow cover for a couple of weeks. The the vibrant display of green proved it.
Two Trees by ashergrey, on Flickr
I at last found a nice spot up the hill from the lake on its south-east corner, with a good rock outcropping that wouldn't gather too much water if storms returned later in the evening.
Looking back down the drainage, it seemed a legitimate concern.
Storm Front by ashergrey, on Flickr
The brief of bout of sunlight had also made the humidity spike. Damp clothing stuck to my body. A fire wouldn't be possible given everything that could burn had been thoroughly soaked.
Instead I wandered around taking photos as the daylight faded, trying to pick the least-damp approach to each spot along the lake shore. Pulses of rain came as if on schedule, rolling in every 15 to 20 minutes. Each sent me dashing back to camp where I'd huddle in the tent or beneath trees until the precipitation eased.
Mount Beulah Burning by ashergrey, on Flickr
The storms created countless cascades that fell along the Uinta headwall. Occasional rockfalls set off avalanches of scree. Erosion painted the water red and the individual streams mingled into one at Allsop's inlet, where I stood with a camera and tripod.
Pink Skies by ashergrey, on Flickr
Flashes of sunlight lit up different parts of the sky as the day drew to an end. No sooner could I train a lens on the ephemeral light than it would vanish, only to reappear along some different ridge or peak.
Fire on the Parapets by ashergrey, on Flickr
By now I realized this basin, for one night at least, belonged entirely to me. I alone occupied it. This sky, this sunset, this cool alpine calm couldn't be spoiled or stolen. The mountain itself had bled before a theater of one.
Violet by ashergrey, on Flickr
Backpacker by ashergrey, on Flickr
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A lone figure looked up from the basin below, squinting toward the source of the clamor. Everywhere he saw motion — in the churning gray clouds that rolled like ocean surf, in torrents of water cascading off eroded terraces that once played host to grand glaciers — but his straining eyes lacked the fidelity to find the one boulder tumbling among the mass of rain-wetted rock.
Sweat and condensate danced in his mussed hair as he peered at the mountain, occasional droplets sneaking away down his neck like young lovers in search of private corners. He breathed hard. His heart thumped like a smith's hammer on the anvil, pushing molten heat through his veins. At his feet, streams coalesced from the surrounding cliffs. The muddy fingers of rain water were tinged the color of dried blood.
It were as if the mountain itself had bled.
Between the Storms by ashergrey, on Flickr
The Saturday of July 13th dawned overcast and cool. A breeze slithered through the sage and lodgepole on the north slope. Pre-dawn had already come and gone, as had several cycles on the alarm clock's snooze. With a click and wheeze the propane-fired heater grumbled to life, spewing warmer air into the trailer. Already behind schedule, I tossed the afghan off the bed and stumbled onto my feet. Splitting the blinds with my fingers, I peeked outside. Flat gray clouds dominated the sliver of northern sky visible through the small window. But blue patches appeared to be waging a pitched battle in the south, driving back the onslaught of gloom.
The forecast had been poor even before leaving Salt Lake the night prior. Undeterred, I'd decided to drive so far as Uintalands, where I planned sleep before assessing conditions first-hand come morning. Now, that morning had come and I found myself no more certain as to what I should do.
Sullen, I wielded a plastic spoon and scarfed down a bowl of cold cereal before dressing and stepping out into the dew-decked meadow.
Getting to that place had come in increments. Maybe I'll take a drive up the Mirror Lake Highway this weekend had grown into maybe I'll do an overnight at the property Friday night. But it's torturous to drive all that way without shouldering a pack and putting feet on a trail. So then the idea morphed into maybe I'll go backpacking if the weather looks good.
The weather did not look good. Not ominous or, thankfully, dangerous. But not pleasant.
Incrementalism came into play again. Maybe I'll just drive up to East Fork and see if the skies get any better.
Oh, how they did.
East Fork of the Bear by ashergrey, on Flickr
Evidence of the prior night's storm abounded along the trial. Wooden planks on the boardwalks had swollen. Paintbrush and other wildflowers flaunted their color.
I skipped around the wide bogs formed by rain and hooves. I turned up my nose at the putrid stew of mud and splattered dung, cursing the cattle, cursing the cowpokes and cursing the Forest Service.
I cursed the sky too as those blue expanses once again turned gray, vanishing as phantasms. Mother Nature has a grifter's grin. She'll flash you an enticing smile while holding a knife at the small of her back.
Taking shelter from the rain near the vacated homes of tie hacks, I held staring contests with the cattle. My voice bellowed across wide meadows at the beasts, castigating them for spoiling such superb places. They regarded me with caution but did not move, allowing their mass to dictate which of us controlled the confrontation.
Moo by ashergrey, on Flickr
More head were scattered up the basin. At one point I paused to listen as a large steer bawled from the edge of a meadow, its long moos ascending in pitch. At the opposite end of the meadow a young buck mule deer froze, making eye contact with me. I'm sure he felt me a greater threat than the wailing brute, though I meant him no harm. I'd have shot him, but only with my camera.
Another cow caught me unawares as I rounded a corner, muttering to myself about some matter or other. Another wave of rain had started to patter on the nylon of my pack cover when I spotted it standing astride the trail. Our shared path crossed an elevated shoulder — thick brush clung to the steep slopes on either side, making circumvention unlikely. The mother eyeballed me with one side of her broad face as a calf stumbled up alongside her.
"Move it, stupid cow."
She only stared back, doubtless thinking make me. I clapped my hands and stomped my feet, but did not advance. Maintaining that distance came not from fear, but prudence. No mother appreciates a man making unwelcome advances in the presence of her child.
A few well-aimed rocks finally prodded the pair into moving. They moseyed up the trail as the rain increased its patter, finally crashing through the brush when the trail-side slope leveled out somewhat.
My path veered off to the opposite side — east — soon afterward, ascending the Left Hand Fork. Sprinkles became showers became squalls by the time my feet reached the top of the switchbacks. Shrugging off my pack, I found a dry spot beneath a single pine and shoved my spine up against the trunk.
Falls on the East Fork by ashergrey, on Flickr
The stream fell away just to the right, dropping off the first cascade of a waterfall into an inviting pool. For what seemed a great while I stared at it, hearing the atonal chaos of the churning water obliterate what thoughts occupied my mind. The sound drowned out the rain and the occasional jet roaring overhead some 30,000 feet distant. But it did not drown out a high-pitched clamor that rattled like a wind chime on the breeze.
It must have occurred many times before the sound at last registered in my brain. When it did, when my senses had attuned to the environment they way they never do in the city, I saw it. A little bird flitted up and down the waterway. It flew back and forth like an athlete running ladders, disappearing at times over the edge of the waterfall. That's when the wind chime came.
Crawling forth from my rain shelter, I peeked over the brink.
Lunchtime for the American Dipper family by ashergrey, on Flickr
A small, well-concealed nest sat nestled just off the water at the foot of the falls. The ingenuity of the abode shamed me. It had been before my eyes the entire time, but so expertly designed I had not seen it. Each time the adult bird visited the nest with some bug or grub, three little beaks strained out from the opening. Their necks stretched out, trembling with each hungry cheep! There then was the source of the chimes.
Battlements by ashergrey, on Flickr
Skies cleared again, but again only briefly. No sooner had I pushed off for the second half of the hike than rain, thunder and hail sent me scrambling into the brush for cover again. Now the clouds dropped, obscuring the peaks and blanketing the basin. The wet exposed skin of my arms turned clammy. Little white stones battered leaves and branches, then quickly melted in muddy puddles. The whip-crack of thunder not far overhead made the ground shake.
In between such bouts, my boots slogged through ruts. Water squished out from beneath the tread with each step. The trail became a river channel, flowing down the narrow track. Walking above the rivulets did little good, as every bough and blade of grass had been loaded with moisture.
Soaked and sullen, I at last crested the final hill and came into sight of my destination: Allsop Lake.
Then, with fairytale timing, the storm broke. Warm rays of sun streamed into the narrow valley, illuminating streamers of vapor.
In the Shadow of Yard Peak by ashergrey, on Flickr
On weary feet I circled the lake's east side, scouting for a campsite. Most of the best late-season candidates were still saturated with snowmelt. The entire area had only been free of snow cover for a couple of weeks. The the vibrant display of green proved it.
Two Trees by ashergrey, on Flickr
I at last found a nice spot up the hill from the lake on its south-east corner, with a good rock outcropping that wouldn't gather too much water if storms returned later in the evening.
Looking back down the drainage, it seemed a legitimate concern.
Storm Front by ashergrey, on Flickr
The brief of bout of sunlight had also made the humidity spike. Damp clothing stuck to my body. A fire wouldn't be possible given everything that could burn had been thoroughly soaked.
Instead I wandered around taking photos as the daylight faded, trying to pick the least-damp approach to each spot along the lake shore. Pulses of rain came as if on schedule, rolling in every 15 to 20 minutes. Each sent me dashing back to camp where I'd huddle in the tent or beneath trees until the precipitation eased.
Mount Beulah Burning by ashergrey, on Flickr
The storms created countless cascades that fell along the Uinta headwall. Occasional rockfalls set off avalanches of scree. Erosion painted the water red and the individual streams mingled into one at Allsop's inlet, where I stood with a camera and tripod.
Pink Skies by ashergrey, on Flickr
Flashes of sunlight lit up different parts of the sky as the day drew to an end. No sooner could I train a lens on the ephemeral light than it would vanish, only to reappear along some different ridge or peak.
Fire on the Parapets by ashergrey, on Flickr
By now I realized this basin, for one night at least, belonged entirely to me. I alone occupied it. This sky, this sunset, this cool alpine calm couldn't be spoiled or stolen. The mountain itself had bled before a theater of one.
Violet by ashergrey, on Flickr
Backpacker by ashergrey, on Flickr
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