through a new reality.

T H R O U G H   a   n e w   R E A L I T Y .

This always happens. Another trip into the Sierras and my head is already filled with dreams of the next. On our way heading north home then I stopped again at the Mono Basin Visitor Center to pick up a copy of Steve Roper's book detailing the High Route he pioneered in the early eighties. Sitting next to pools hot California air while J swam halfway through the introduction or so Roper mentioned a book of photographs published in the mid-nineties by climber-photographer Claude Fiddler. I underlined it. Once home promptly ordered an old worn copy from Better World Books for a buck or so. A couple weeks later I was cracking open the spine.

---

It really is incredible. Smelled particularly old and dusty proper. The printing and paper and typography and design aside I was immediately drawn to a handful of Fiddler's large-format photographs. And so in the space of one in particular taken of Cathedral Peak in the pale hue of dusk I discovered a new truth. Or at least in some way to me a new sort of reality.

And as I poured over the frame what I realized was there were no overly-dense blacks. No over-saturated over-exaggerated hues. Just a soft mellow tone that spoke volumes to me of the moment more true than any photograph I have ever viewed of Cathedral. The far end of the photographic vision spectrum. 

But I also realized how this likely would not catch the eye of someone breezing through an endless barage of images as we approach sensory overload in this over-saturated (pun maybe intended) media world. Where posting a photo with text statistically gets higher rankings on Facebook. Where a quick photo is the new expression of every thought and idea we have. Marketing. Imagery is everywhere and in everything permeating our very conscious. The irony of course is how - despite all of this - so little of it is original anymore.

So surprising then on some level whilst sitting motionless staring into Claude Fiddler's frames of Cathedral and another of Wanda Lake sitting on the front porch I had the breath sucked right out of me. They were - maybe in a single word... effortless. Timeless. Not dated by their Instagram-filter-of-the-year effect but instead infinite for their austerity.

Beautiful.

I look through photographs made today - my own included - like so much rubbish rarely moved as I was in an instant by Fiddler's simple work.

Beyond that I am aware of the possibility of its display. In a book viewed on paper held in my hands versus some illuminated monitor propped up glaring back at me. Something tactile and tangible. Thick with a worn sheen a little yellowed around the edges. Another thing I think we forget in our self-created screen-obsessed world… the beauty in the simplicity of holding a book or seeing a large image on display hung proudly on a wall framed perfectly. Of looking into a print made on paper of inks mixed together instead of photons and the effect it has on our subconscious. Of pouring over the recesses and the details. I remember reading once how our minds are literally blown away by the resolution of an eight-by-ten contact print. Of how we literally cannot process all of the information presented to us. All of the detail. And so the image seems unreal.

Little I see online seems unreal in this way. Maybe so - differently... as in unrealistic. Even something of my own from a trip of ours two summers ago into the Sierras I look at now with disappointment and dismay.

But if anything in this age of digital we are afforded a second chance.

And so I dug up the camera raw file buried on my server to look at it with a new eye. A new vision of what is truth. Or closer to it just a different way of seeing it maybe a little less pristine and processed and a little more yellowed around the edges.

So I muted it a bit. Softened the endpoints of the linear curve on the shadows and highlights. Opened up the midtones but with an overall flattening effect while at the same time compressing the tones slightly to give the twilight its proper respectable place. This was not a high-dynamic range image of false contrasts and phony saturation but rather a quiet evening best represented more in this way I now find.

---

A photograph is never honest I am aware no matter how hard we try. And just as this shows it can be interpreted infinitely. Here I can no longer completely recall the ambience there lying down in the grass getting eaten alive by the swarms of filthy mosquitoes trying to squeeze in a few more images of the fading light next to the outlet stream making its way down from Hungry Packer to Sailor Lake Picture Peak towering above it all. J off running somewhere getting his own photographs or swatting at bugs or both. Left to guess now erring if anything this side of under-processing. But I look at both renditions. Both interpretations. And - maybe like an imperfect performance of some piano sonata or other by old fragile hands - the muted image speaks to me in a deeper sense perhaps because of the very fact it now lacks the punch of its predecessor.

Even these thoughts I know are not original. Other photographers have approached their work in this way. Abstaining from the eye-catching sameness of exaggerated truths. This is nothing new. But regardless - for me I sense a pivotal moment in my ever-learning how to see - and ultimately interpret the wild places in which I will always explore and in my attempt - likely futile at best - to capture in a photograph their essence.

discover.

I am made by my times… I am a creation of now shaken with the cracks and crevices… I'm not giving up easy… I will not fold… I don't have much but what I have is gold... 

(Sorry… I am sorry… )

I want me… I want it all… I want sensational… Irresistible… This is my time and I am thrilled to be alive… Living… Blessed… I understand… Collapse into now…

without memory of the future.

W I T H O U T   M E M O R Y   o f   t h e   F U T U R E .

Day Two. July Thirty-One.  // Woke up in Granite Park. Above timberline. Last night after dinner J and I climbed up a knoll seven hundred feet above camp through the golden hour smoky haze to get a view into the upper basin toward Italy Pass still just out of view. A mess of granite. Feather Peak the most impressive of the craggy lot of mountains behind us. This morning zero smoke from the lightning-sparked Aspen fire burning rugged maybe twenty miles to the west near Huntington Lake. But no clouds either. Hoping maybe they sweep in this afternoon. We roll so much by the weather out here in mountains. Talked to a guy headed out yesterday us trudging up trail him down sounds like we just missed some epic storms! He spoke of three days of thunder and hail ending the day before. Still hoping for something dramatic. A spectacular breeze this morning keeping a chill but still lovely. Not another soul up here us having left the crowds all back at Honeymoon Lake. Feel amazing this morning excited for the climb over Italy Pass and off-trail over into Bear Lakes Basin. Maybe summit Mount Julius Caesar along the way. Even so today will be a pretty easy day with packs compared to yesterday eight miles and up four thousand feet. Then tomorrow a layover day packs off in the basin to explore and climb and goof. J wandering somewhere but we should be moving soon.

No real photographs from Granite Park unfortunately due to the smoke diffused pale light. Otherwise it looked as if it had been a spectacular evening. Up out of the tent in the middle of the night though and the stars and Milky Way overhead incredible. // We made it! Bear Lakes! Italy Pass was fun but we left without climbing Julius Caesar (J may have been a little intimidated looking up from the pass at a steep thousand blocky feet to the summit) in favor of moving onward over the talus traverse to Dancing Bear Pass. No worries. Another time. Flat light of afternoon cloudless Sierras so not terribly inspiring but a fine breeze still. So far today no smoke yet though from Italy Pass I could see it billowing west. And from here we can see our next target above us a couple miles away: Feather Pass. Seemingly so close but one of the tallest passes on the High Route. Day after tomorrow we head over it down through a trail-less canyon to Merriam Lake nestled among impressive granite walls above French Canyon. The Sierras have not disappointed. Seven Gables as impressive a peak as I could imagine. And Feather behind us with its wispy ragged spine. Feeling a bit so myself already and only day two. Ragged. Maybe rugged the better word? Getting into it though. The being out there. Out there over mountain pass after mountain pass no sign of another soul. The altitude settling in on me and the ruggedness of it all. The wind. The sun. Sitting on granite sharp. Miles and miles. I enjoy the peace descending that wilderness brings. How after just a few days no longer concerned with the day of the week or the date or news of any sort from the outside world. Concerned more with smoke and weather patterns and finding the perfect spot to pitch the tent and sprawl and photograph. Find water. To finally be completely lost in the wild moment where it all becomes one and everything. Part of the uncomfortableness becomes comfortable and comforting and I grow stronger. Figure myself out. Test myself trail-less wastelands high above timberline dotted with lakes and passes and endless stone. Leading a now-thirteen-year-old who just trusts in me the way. Tired but knowing then after spending the day climbing over stark gentle talus up crags and cracks there is still a tent to erect and water to be gathered and things to be organized. Dinner to be made. Shadows to watch. But I embrace the work maybe since I have such a terrible time relaxing. Brought Whitman but have not yet cracked the spine. Instead busy myself around camp maybe able to steal a moment to write or read by myself J off wandering. Exploring. Playing. It has calmed down now before dinner. Quiet. Unbelievable there is no one here in this enormous basin etched by the remains of glacial scourings the lakes picturesque and wonderfully delectable. Barren. Ursa. Big Bear. Bearpaw. White Bear. Vee. All under the shadow of the pyramidal obliqueness of Seven Gables. May try to photography the Milky Way. //

Day Three. August One. Rest day. Slept in a little until eight. Coffee whilst a marmot friend returned and watched (agreed it was a she and so we named her Rose). She moved from rock to rock to rock keeping us in sight and company. Found a way over into the grassy chute leading down down to Ursa Lake teeming with infinite bouldering cracks. Hollered to J. And so we spent the morning then solving some problems on the granite before descending all the way to the lake to cross the outlet stream between Ursa and Big Bear and climb again up the ridge to a highpoint separating us from the view to Vee Lake and directly across from Seven Gables. Breezy. Could see smoke gathering and moving east. Sure enough. By the time we returned to camp it had blown in cloaking the basin like a sheer grey dreary veil muddying the view. So afternoon spent mostly in the tent doors open fly fluttering in the thankful breeze. Cloudless though again and of course the grey haze. No epic light last night either but stars and the Milky Way again. Now nothing but blue blue blue blue blue. Keep hoping some clouds will gather and move in and cast their shadows on the granite. Be spared this dreadful fog. In the malaise of this afternoon overhearing J sighing me sitting outside the tent him bathing in it I cannot help but start questioning these trips. So sure and excited planning for it and thinking of it but under the Sierra sun relentless am left wondering. I know of course this is all part of it. The lazy times in the tent same as the scrambling over passes finding our way and climbing the sheer fun of it. The cloudless skies. The quiet. All part of it becoming as I have felt me. But for J does it mean anything? Is he wishing he were somewhere else? What are these holidays out into the mountains? This one even an extra day now six total. How to handle the quiet from a thirteen year old's perspective? Away from our distractions where does his mind wander? He can just play endlessly it sometimes seems Stanley and George to keep him company. Maybe it is just this moment and my worries will pass. Need to get out of this tent. // We climbed up a ridge and from the top spotted a pair of intrepid hikers who had made their way over Feather Pass now down far below us! So goes our solitude… But everyone has a story and so shortly we would learn some of theirs. We down-climbed hopping from granite to granite back to camp to find the pair slumped against packs right around the corner on a sandy bench. They seemed as surprised to see us as we had been earlier of them. Dan and Lori as we made our acquaintances. Them on day twelve of thirty on a south-north traverse of the two-hundred-mile Sierra High Route (of which this Bear Lakes Basin sat just about squarely in the middle). Off-trail they say it is rare to see many other hikers having gone six or eight days sometimes without passing a soul. As Lori continued to explain over their teas and our hot chocolates they started backpacking with their oldest daughter when she was three (now a climbing ski bum shedding herself of the college experience at the ski resort in Jackson Hole). At age seven they took her the entire journey of the John Muir Trail (some two hundred fifteen miles). Their two daughters now grown Dan and Lori make the more-precisely one hundred ninety-five-mile High Route journey themselves. //

It is that time now while dinner rehydrates and I am left to sit on granite while J scrapes at the rock next to me the view astounding. The quiet immersive. The smoke once settled here seems thankfully to be falling retreating back into the valleys below. This spot wildly absurd. Looking down from three hundred feet above the stairstep topography of this basin of lakes is obvious. Snowmelt off Feather Peak trickles down into Bearpaw. Then a small outlet stream from there to Ursa and another feeds further down into Big Bear Lake. Yet another stream drops then to Little Bear just visible and still further beyond into Bear Creek Basin towards the West Fork of Bear Creek and finally… ultimately… down down down into the by-then-tumultuous South Fork of the great San Joaquin River. It is utterly profound the geometry of rivers. How our existence not just here in Bear Lakes Basin where we dip our water bottles into the outlet stream from Black Bear Lake that drains into the aforementioned Big Bear and onward. But of the great San Joaquin and how it courses through the enormous fertile San Joaquin valley west to the Pacific Ocean (the source of the South Fork is Martha Lake whilst the North Fork source is the popular Thousand Island Lake under the shadow of Mount Ritter and Banner Peak to our north near Mammoth). Of all the millions of people who depend on it. From where it comes. Mesmerizing to me. // In talking more with Lori I came to realize the needlessness of my worrying. She emphasized to me in a way maybe without knowing how these sorts of trips are all about the experience. Sharing them with family. Kids growing up. Playing in mountains. And I realized how then in the back of my mind I should not care so much about clouds and light and shadows. Or of little things. I should care more about moments. Like climbing up a route we dubbed 'You Got Pwned.' Over and over and over again cos it was fun and a little sketchy but not too much and we were in the mountains after all. Uno in the tent every night followed by each of us taking turns sharing our pictures of the day laughing and joking and loving. Dinners in the fading light of a falling sun. Quiet. Absolute quiet except for the sound of waters off in the distance falling below. Just that… no distractions. The two of us. And I think back to how these trips have evolved. From him eight years old going over Kearsarge Pass spending two nights below at the lakes to ten years old cresting Bishop Pass twelve thousand feet and spending three nights in the spectacular and rugged Dusy Basin. And to now moving every night six or eight or more miles over rough terrain not marked by a trail us having to plan and find our way up and over and across and through. Endless. // Day Four. August Second. At the waterfall crashing above Merriam Lake we were greeted with a seemingly lush paradise below a forest of whitebark pine and shade! There is a comfort to be found amongst trees after spending days above timberline in barren rocky worlds. The blistering sun. We met two girls (the only other people other than Dan and Lori we encountered off-trail) on their way up the steep loose slope above Merriam. The one had a stuffed penguin strapped to the top lid of her pack. A mountaineering penguin she explained to us. She told J he was rad for doing this trip and how he was the only kid she had ever seen out here. He beamed on the outside. I did on the inside. It is from these trips I know he finds his unimaginable confidence. The girls did not know where they would be camping that night only at a place they found themselves after their legs had given up for the day. Sounded proper. We found ourselves at the lake searching for a campsite near the outlet. Dry. So back to the perfect sandy shore we had passed on the way in to drop our packs. Sit in the shade. Not long though before I grabbed for flip flops and towel and went running diving headfirst into the lake! Amazing! Nothing quite like swimming in an alpine lake no one around under immense mountain walls. Frigid spectacular! // Day Five. August Third. Morning. Idyllic. Sun. Clouds! Distant waterfall whitenoise otherwise perfect stillness. A sort of quiet of my dreams. A warm chill. My down sweater and shorts and coffee on granite on the shore of the blissful lake lapping perfectly against the rock. Gently. J rustling in the tent behind me. Do not want to leave this place we have again to ourselves. Or this moment. I think this is it. The moment. There is always one it seems that I realize I will remember always and will in its essence make up my memory of the trip. Last year it was whilst sitting on granite in Darwin Bench looking toward peaks infinite and talus endless clouds forming out over the horizon distant. Here so much granite. Towering over me. And the jumbled mess of whitebark pines and quiet. Unrivaled quiet. I am here at last able to embrace our solitude. Our peace. Never sure of anything before or after this moment realizing suddenly all that is wild and calm and beautiful inside me and surrounding me. Certain only of the finitude of the moment knowing that it cannot last. How we must with a little apprehension and some sadness pack up and head out. But that if it could surely its weight and meaning would fail. Two days of driving thirty-some miles of hiking sore and hot and thirsty all to realize this here and now. And to somehow hold onto it. Only the sound of that distant waterfall breaking now the silence. This is what I am. This one being surrounded by wild unknown literal here in this sense but figurative once we have left and find ourselves back home. To let this moment come back later to fill me again as the Sierra breeze perfect fills me now. Gives me life and hope and joy. Watching the clouds drift slowly across the pale blue sky I am surprised. I smile. Put on Exitmusic. One song. Close my eyes. Goosebumps. Tears. // A long day. Through French Canyon on up to Pine Creek Pass eleven thousand feet. A lake by surprise. We rested before the downhill past Honeymoon and Upper Pine finally to Pine Lake. Shade and a breeze! Doze for a few minutes. Enjoy the silence. It is coming to an end after all. An early dinner followed by a scramble up a peak opposite Pine Creek here for a view above the lake across over to Granite Park and the crooked peaks from where we had been. From where we had come no longer a mystery but still mysterious. Light turning from orange to pale pink and gone. //

Day Six. August Four. Cloudless above. Red sky east at quarter to six. Back wrapped up in down until a little after seven out here now on granite clouds have moved in but sun streams through Pine Creek canyon to me. Warm. Last day. We hike out easy all downhill maybe four or five miles. Then back. Bishop. I know J is excited. Me too in some ways the same. Cannot stay out here in mountains forever. Must return. Though I feel pointedly in this moment here how there is so much in this life for which to be thankful. None the least these very moments and days surrounded by storms and clouds and sun and granite and quiet unfelt anywhere but here not to be forgotten. The morning yesterday beside Merriam as effortless clouds gained their hold in an otherwise empty sapphire sky. And as Stipe sings in a sort of anthem for now…

I am made by my times… I am a creation of now shaken with the cracks and crevices… I'm not giving up easy… I will not fold… I don't have much but what I have is gold... I want me… I want it all… I want sensational… Irresistible… This is my time and I am thrilled to be alive… Living… Blessed… I understand… Collapse into now…

(Sorry… I am sorry… )

I hear that song this perfect mountain morning near Pine Lake half a world away from civilization now just beyond the rise. The clouds disintegrate above me. It will be my time to go. To wash up. Relax for one more day with J swimming under the dry hot sun reading under lazy cottonwoods their shadows lengthen across green green grass before the long drive home. I am not sure what this trip into mountains has meant. Last year a cleansing this year unsure. Maybe these trips are always a cleansing. To leave a little something of the past behind left only then to look forward but without knowing for what. To look without seeing. It is not in my hands these ties that bind I admit to these lodgepole pines shading me under which I sit here and now. There is no time. Maybe all this was these last six days of us shouldering packs over mountain passes lying under stars as winds shook our tent already a memory. Like everything in the past. All I have is living for now without memory of the future. So I write without entirely grasping the weight. Move forward is all as we must down this trail here now these last six precious days distilled to that singular moment along the porous shore of Merriam Lake.

I try to soak up the last of the quiet. Maybe that is what I will miss most… simple. Quiet. The sound of an outlet stream making its way from summits under snowfields through basins and canyons to gather itself swiftly and strongly into rivers. Already now distant and faded. A memory.

our summer holiday...

... through the lens of a garage sale find Pentax K1000 35mm SLR I had sitting up on a shelf and an old roll of long-expired Kodak Portra 160 colour film ...

Lunch rest stop along Oregon Highway 97 next to the Klamath River...

Me... outside the Mono Basin Visitor Center (where we always stop to eat lunch and get our wilderness permits since it seems like by the time I actually plan our route all the reserved permits are - well - reserved... )...

J...

Mono Lake...

Yeah... this place is definitely nostalgic (we also always buy a souvenir and postcards here)...

Stanley and George take in the view on the drive...

J walking along 395-slash-Main Street in Bishop... we love that little town!...

... and trying on a Black Diamond pack at the cool Bishop outdoorsy store...

Swimming at the good ol' Days Inn (we always stay there before we head into the backcountry)...

Umm... we thought the font was über-cool...

Downtown Bishop...

Reading in bed...

Cottonwood trees and sun whilst sitting and relaxing at the city park reading the day we returned from six days in the backcountry (and after swimming in the Bishop pool!)...

The same cottonwoods...

Long shadows...

Spencer...

Cool metal mountain sculpture at the best coffee house between Bishop and Portland... the Looney Bean! (made especially delicious after not having any for six whole days!)...

Driving out of Bishop north on 395 towards Mammoth... kind of hazy from the Aspen fire (but also just funky expired film)...

The town of Bridgeport (where from you reach the Twin Lakes trailhead sixteen miles or so south... or the northern terminus of the High Route... )...

Uhh... yeah... driving...

Swimming... : )

Best pool in Redding...

Whilst sitting in traffic in Portland...

Spencer after 1800 miles!!!...

And Stanley and George... glad to be home!...








And despite it being a spectacular holiday... so were we...




... so were we...

(Parting shot... - not taken on the Pentax -... of J staring off to Feather Peak in Bear Lakes Basin... )

we are sparks of light [but we hide it].

Another song for warm summer evenings twilight when things quiet down ...

Draw yourself a line and stand behind it.


(Blurry-edged, your mind can still refine it)


We are all sparks of light.


(We are sparks of light but we hide it)