Leaving Big Pine, I drove another forty miles south to the equally quaint village of Lone Pine, CA. I make my turn and begin looking for the sandy, unmarked road, which leads to my trail head After one mistaken trail, I find the correct one.
I park the truck and make my way across a sturdy wooden bridge, which allows passage across the swift-flowing Line Pine Creek. Up a hillside and I am in the desert; not high desert like in Reno, but desert-desert . . . white sand, small sage, and the truest wild cacti I have ever seen.
Following the trail guide, I make my way to the wash some distance away, which skirts the Alabama Hills. These hills are often seen in movies due to their abundant, oblong rock formations. It’s hot out here, very hot, but I try my best to conserve water. I continue on around the hillside, following the path of rainwater wash that by the dryness must have been formed sometime last century. I must climb over a boulder here and there, which adds a little excitement, but I begin getting frustrated as I see no sign of a natural arch.
After about an hour out in this scorching sun and with night rapidly approaching, I decide to call it quits. I have a five hour drive home and will need a bit more than two hours of sleep if I am to work tomorrow.
For now, this natural arch eludes me, but I shall return. . .
I had been planning this hike for some time and decided to finally go for it. The obstacle that had prevented me from doing it sooner was the distance. The trail head is about 45 minutes up winding mountain roads form Big Pine, C, which itself is about a 4 hour drive from m current home in Reno, NV. However, I got a pretty early start and arrived in the picturesque village of Big Pine by 11:30AM. I quickly located my turn and began making my way up into the White Mountain Range. As I traversed the narrow, winding roads, I was amazed at the altitude gain . . . 6000 ft . . . 7000 ft . . . 8000 ft . . . 9000 ft. I’ve driven up Mt. Rose near Reno many times, but somehow this seemed much steeper and less gradual.
At about 9000 ft, there was an observation platform that peaked my interest. I stopped, walked out to the highest point, and began taking a few pictures of the breathtaking mountainscapes now surrounding me. On a constructed stone wall there were what appeared to be telescopes, though they had no lenses whatsoever. These puzzled me a bit and I can only guess they are used for scanning the distant mountainside.
After a short time, I got in my truck and continued another couple of miles to the parking area. I briefly spoke with the ranger and started down the trail in search of the ancient bristlecone pine trees. It occurred to me that I may not be able to distinguish them from other trees on these steep, gravely mountainsides. Luckily, the map given to me by the ranger details the differences.
As hikes go, this one was a tad challenging. Lots of uphill; lots of trail exposed to the same unrelenting sun that pounds Death Valley, just a few miles to the east. In total the trail is about 4.2 miles long as it passes through the Methuselah Grove and circles back, but it’s worth every ounce of the effort.
All along the way, I could see examples of old trees, but once I reached the grove of the truly ancient specimens, it was another world entirely. Not much lives at this high altitude. There isn't much brush to speak of; not even the hearty sage bush. The ancient bristlecone pines tolerate no co-habitation as they rise out of the white gravel here and there.
They are not tall trees in the least, but their twisted, burnt trunks tell their age by shear mass. Many of these trees are between three and four THOUSAND years old. The oldest of them, though unmarked, has been dated to 2600 b.c.e. These trees were already ancient when Troy was burnt to the ground and Buddha walked the Earth. It’s difficult to fathom the idea of millenniae – plural. And what secrets to these ent-like beings whisper – none.
Absolute silence is an unsettling state if one is unaccustomed to it. And that is the sound of beings who shared their gossip, told their jokes, sang their songs countless centuries ago – silence. Apparently, they long ago said everything that needed to be said. Still, I leave this grove humbled and in awe of these ancient sentinels.
After a couple of seasons with little or no hiking activity, I've decided to attempt to rekindle my interest. For today, I had originally planned three hikes in the Mammoth Lakes general area. However, fate intervened. Making my way south on US 395, I was a bit startled to see a woman flagging me down from the middle of the road. With Mono Lake in site, I pulled over. As I did, I noticed a motorcycle, a deer, and a man all scattered across the road ahead of me.
I rushed to the man who was lying on his side and being attended to by his wife. AS I was one of the first on site after the apparent accident, I asked if anyone had called 911. No one could get a signal on their cell phones in this treacherously mountainous area. I pulled my much-hated blackberry from my pocket, fumbled with my password, and found that I did indeed have a signal. I immediately dialed 911. After far too many rings, the emergency operator picked up. I explained the situation with what little detail I had at the moment. The operator said she was dispatching help immediately.
As I was on the phone, several other drivers stopped to offer assistance. After talking to the wife, I discovered the man had swerved to avoid hitting a doe and in the process hit the young fawn following her, killing the little one and toppling the motorcycle in the process. The man was conscious, but in obvious pain. At about the moment I fully understood what had happened a police officer arrived. He made a quick assessment of the situation and asked me and a couple of others to help him move what remained of the bike.
Just as we cleared the road, three tour buses pulled up and an army officer in camo jumped off. He yelled at the other buss and out came about a dozen soldiers with full EMT gear in hand. They began to examine the injured man. When the local EMT’s arrived moments later, their first view was the man being cared for by an army doctor and surrounded by an entire platoon of soldiers in full camo.
As the situation seemed well in hand now, I offered the man’s wife my well wishes and excused myself. It felt good to be able to help, even in some meager way, but there was nothing more I could o. And so, I continued my drive another 50 miles south.
When I finally reached my destination, I noticed a number of fly-fishermen casing into the narrowly winding river. It reminded me of “A River Runs through It”, the Robert Redford film. It was quite a site to see the men cast to and fro as their lures taunted the fish below.
Finding the trail head I began to walk a short path alongside the fiver until the source of my attention draw about a quarter of a mile from my truck. The area was heavily fenced and had a plethora of signs speaking of imminent danger and possible death from exposure. Casting my eyes toward the opposite shore (a mere 20 yards away), I saw two stepped pools of bubbling light blue water. There was a hint of sulfur in the air, but not as pungent as some other hot springs I had seen. Steam rose off the pools and I watched as the boiling water ascended over two dwarf falls and finally merged with the river. What a site it must have been to have discovered this phenomenon.
With the time spent at the accident, my hiking day had come to an end. I returned along a dusty gravel road to my truck and headed home.
