Sowing on the Mountain

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She hiked the upper trail that paralleled the main one to Big Sandy Lake, looping north around V Lake and then northeast along open slopes and through forest to Diamond Lake, where it joined the main trail. There was a lot of sheep sign, gnawed vegetation, and meadows lacking flower heads, with a web of fresh trails contouring the slopes. Above Diamond Lake was a herder camp that was a mess, with an old tent that had holes burnt in the top. She scanned it through binoculars but didn't want to get too close— she'd mention it to Harv, then check back after the herders moved on.

It was July 4th weekend. Big Sandy Lake was the usual mob scene. She ticketed a couple guys who'd pitched their tent next to the lake and then cleaned a mess of trout on the shore, leaving the guts. They'd built a fire, and were cooking them in a frypan. She said they could finish and eat, but then they had to bury the fish guts and stuff in the firepit, cover it up, and move their tent. As she walked away she could hear them muttering obscenities. While she was glad for her martial arts skill, learned from a nun at Catholic school, she couldn't go around knocking the crap out of every stupid redneck who insulted her.

From Big Sandy she hiked up to Black Joe— no trouble there— and bushwhacked down the bedrock slope to Clear Lake. The glacier had carved deep into the granite, which was thinly covered with soil. In the fissures grew big whitebark pines, hundreds of years old, with a mix of conifers shallowly rooted in pocket woods, separated by bare rock. Around the whitebarks, squirrels cached cones, that had large, edible seeds, and had built up drifts of organic duff. Just before the snow, bears would dig out the cones, smash them with a paw, and lick up the seeds, robbing the squirrels of their winter store. Consequently, it was a bad idea to camp on or near cone caches in the late season— she'd have to keep an eye on the place. The trail to Deep Lake was partly covered by snow, and muddy in spots, so she did some impromptu ballet moves to avoid stepping in muck. No horse tracks, which was good. Horses could really ruin a trail early in the season.

The ice-scoured groove that led up to Deep Lake was starkly gorgeous. Haystack Peak lifted a long, steep wall above, and when she broke over the lip of the cirque, East Temple loomed, a clean, near-vertical wall. She could see why climbers were nuts for this place.

She checked a few camps, all good ones, and talked to the campers who were friendly. There weren't many tent spots near the outlet, so she boulder- hopped and strolled over inclined exposures of glittery bedrock to the head, still mostly under snow. There was one clear spot, just big enough for the little solo hoop tent she'd scored at Browse & Buy. There was barely room, at the head, for Gris to curl up. Hoot Sexton, if he tried his tricks, would have to sleep outside.

The head of Deep Lake had an extraordinary view, ringed with walls on three sides and open downstream to the basin of Big Sandy Lake, that was backed by a rank of sharper and more broken summits. As she cooked her meal, she saw other parties arrive at the outlet and grab the last tent sites. She thought about taking a swim, but changed her mind after dipping a handful of water that had recently been snow. After dinner she boulder-hopped and found a wide spot in the inlet stream that was hidden from view. I'll swim there on my next hitch, she thought.

The falling sun painted the faces of East Temple and Haystack with colors not to be described as the air deepened its blue until darkness rose to claim the basin. She sat crosslegged on a boulder and scanned for the twinkle of campfires: none.

Next morning she sat in the same place with a mug of coffee and scanned again, for blue threads of smoke: none. Maybe word had gotten around that there was a mean-ass bitch ranger handing out tickets. So many people didn't believe that wilderness regs applied to them. Old folks would bluster that they'd been coming up here all their lives and building fires, so why not now? Young ones didn't seem to give a damn— as long as they didn't get caught.

The rising sun had dried her sleeping bag and tent, so she packed up and scrambled to the divide between Deep and Temple Lakes: another stunner. Temple Lake was about half ice, with a big berg floating free. The peak above and west was a ragged massif, striped with black dikes and icy slots. There was one ice cave, weeping under a huge jammed block, that would swallow a motorhome or two. The downslope was still pretty snowy, so she contoured toward the outlet and the trail that led down another scooped rock groove to Miller and Raid Lakes, small and narrow, fringed with scraggly conifers. From there, the trail tumbled down a rockstrewn slope to Big Sandy Lake.

She felt like bushwhacking south to the slope of Schiestler Peak, where there was a mining claim with some old buildings and machinery. But instead she sighed and did another circuit of Big Sandy Lake, talking to campers and answering the usual questions before heading down the main trail to spend a night at the shack.