The problem now was that it was almost 9:00 PM and I had no campsite. I was gambling on a campground at Wright’s Lake, some xx miles down Highway 50. The highway was dark without a lot of signs; unsure of myself I stopped at a resort in Strawberry to verify I was going the right way. Cars were racing the other way up toward Tahoe in tight bunches of five and six, and I was starting to recognize the predominant form of highway driving in California: go as fast as you can until you come upon someone going slower and then bunch up in a collective effort to force the lead driver to go faster, even though he or she is probably already speeding. Watching this again and again over the next few weeks I came upon an easy solution to California’s budget woes. Arnold should just send state troopers out to write tickets for following too closely. They could soon reinstate free tuition at the state colleges.
The long road up Wright's Lake Road was dark and empty. I was starting to worry that maybe the campground was closed, and was stunned to arrive and find the “full” sign up. No one was on the road because everyone was already there. I was in trouble now and headed straight to the host, who fortunately had saved a site or two for late-arriving desperadoes such as myself. I had lucked into a site at a very popular campground, fully reserved six months in advance. Starving, I set about heating soup by the light of my headlamp and a neighbor quickly came over and offered me the use of his torch lantern. He was a bit miffed that I declined the offer, but I was just fine eating my soup by headlamp. He and his party and nearly everyone else in the campground was loaded down with equipment, and my low-tech backpacking style was apparently an affront.
I headed off the next morning to Wright's Lake picnic area to rest my weary feet and to my surprise find a lot of picnickers. Shade. Canoes. Floats. Kids. Not wanting to walk too far from my car - I was pretty sore - I put my chair in the shade just a few yards from some unattended water toys, not sure about territorial claims. A bit later a family or two drifted in and settled around their stuff. The kids seemed more or less oblivious to me, though a parent or two seemed a little wary. But generally they went about their beach activities and generally - I hope - became comfortable with my existence. I was reading and pretty much ignoring them. At least not looking at them. But I did enjoy them, very peripherally, as I read Geological Trips of Sierra Nevada. Two older girls, 10 and 12 maybe, and their mothers were particularly good. Quietish, witty, generally relaxed. Fun with floats and boats, then really - what's the word? - desultory lounging around, saying they should get going and then not going anywhere for close to an hour. The men were quiet quiet quiet but the whole group was very contained. NO parent child fights or squabbles the whole time. The kids didn't even fight with each other!
Evening at Wright's Lake was profoundly beautiful. The breezes that people here take for granted would elicit a collective sigh in Puget Sound. Somehow the lakes have very few mosquitoes. An osprey was hunting, not too successfully. I was alone for most of the evening but as sunset approached people begin to gravitate to my perch, many holding glasses of wine. I was sitting right in the middle, sort of hogging the view, so I surrendered my prime real estate to the latecomers.
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| Wright's Lake |
The next day’s hike was supposed to be an easy one but ended up being almost as tough as Lake Aloha. A trail straight from the campground headed back into Desolation Wilderness, first to Gertrude Lake and then to Tyler Lake, about four miles and 1000’ elevation gain. This leg was easy enough, though comparatively uninspiring.. Duo-tone: granite gray and dusty green, a splash of orange ore providing a touch of variety. My hiking book suggested a scramble up the ridge above Tyler Lake to attain a couple of tarns, and a terrific photo sold me on the idea. But the directions were a little vague and I wasn't sure exactly which ridge to ascend and when I chose one and looked down I saw bodies of water too large to be called tarns and way too far down to be reasonably considered part of this hike. Furthermore, I could see a couple of families with small children down there and I felt sure they hadn’t gotten there by scrambling down from where I was. They must have come in an easier way. So I worked my way down the steep hillside and learned I had arrived at Island Lakes, the destination of a different hike altogether. I had improvised a loop.
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| Island Lakes |
Island Lakes was a rugged area surrounded by "the Capital Range", mostly gray rock with a prominent patch of orange. But as I scrambled down to Twin Lakes the gray gave way to cream, the tree formations became more profound, and yippee! - the best part of the hike.
The return trail from Twin Lakes was reportedly vague and I was at a disadvantage not having come in that way, and in fact I never did find it. I kept heading off trail in open granite thinking I'd spot it eventually, and when I didn't I ascended an outlook and deployed my binoculars. I spotted a trail off in the distance and after some scrapping around I found it, and it was the trail to Tyler Lake, the one I'd come in on early in the day. I limped in at about 5:00PM, another 10 hour day. My back was not much enjoying these 10 hour days.
After dinner I went back to my spot on Wright's Lake for a near replay of the night before.. Widgeons snapping bugs out of the air - I've never seen that before; a brief appearance by the osprey; a heron. When the sunset happy hour crowd arrived I headed back to my site, which proved to be a mistake. It was Saturday night and despite its proximity to the wilderness, this is not a hikers’ campground. Two sites down an RV was blaring C&W, while two sites over a live band actually set up: snare drums, trumpet and electric guitar. All of this made the loud yuppies across the way besides the point. "Well it was Saturday night, I guess that makes it all right..."
It quieted down reasonably enough and I had a decent night. Another lovely morning, first cold then warm in the sun, then off came the layers, and eventually it was too hot and I went back into the shade, all in about an hour. I began Per Petterson's To Siberia, a 1996 novel published in Great Britain in 1998 and just being published in the first US. Novels take you to other worlds, of course, and I haven't been reading them anywhere near as much as I had expected. Mostly because I am in another world, a succession of them really, and have spent a lot of time learning about them.
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