July 3, 2022

What a night! The wind started howling through the trees above us at about 9:00 PM. I thought they would abate, but they lasted almost all night, letting up at times but never being still. I am so grateful that we moved from Thousand Island Lake, where we would certainly have been blown to bits. Here, the wind stayed in the treetops, only occasionally ruffling the tents. I was reminded of hiking through a region about ten miles south of here while on the JMT, where an entire swath of forest was felled by a “freak” wind event not that many years ago. like a mini mountain cyclone. Could it happen here? Can these trees around us withstand the force? Last night, they held, for which I am grateful.

Emily and I met a couple people coming down from Thousand Island Lake, who confirmed that it had been a brutal night up there, with lots of tents mangled and sandblasted by the wind. One hiker summed it up succinctly: “It was stupid.” I guess those sorts of weather events are part of what have formed that area into its current stark nearly-treeless beauty. And I am thankful that we didn’t try to stick it out up there.

Yesterday (and the day before) I as so tired walking uphill—just slogging along—and today I am taken over with a flood of gratitude that I am here, that I can still do this, that it’s an actual option for me.

Emily and I are staying in this camp again tonight. I wish I had a guitar for this day off. When the wind slacks off, it feels like summer and I imagine a swim a little later, in the heat of the day. But then it starts up again and those plans are shelved. It’s a beautiful day no matter what.

There is a couple camped not too far from us, on a gorgeous rocky peninsula. They have a two-person Tarp Tent and a Bearikade. They must be Californians. I have yet to see them at their campsite or around the lake.

This morning, I took a leisurely ramble/stroll/saunter out to the end of a promontory and found a ledge that blocked the wind. I stared at the deep blue restless lake. It’s so calming. I listened to the wind approach and recede through the susurrating lodgepoles. There are so many difficult pressures and demands on my home life these days, and I need this physical distance and space, to be here now, to give me the strength to be there then.

I started making up verses to one of my favorite old-time songs, “Look Down that Lonesome Road,” and set Emily to the task as well.

Look up, look down that long lonesome road, hang down your head and cry, my love, hang down your head and cry

The best of friends must sometimes part, so why not you and I, my love? Why not you and I?

The darkest night I ever saw was the day that you left home, my love, the day that you left home

The sweetest words I ever heard were when you said hello, my love, were when you said hello

Ah, but the saddest words I ever heard  were when you said goodbye my love—I hung my head and I cried

My heart is broken clean in two and half will go with you my love, half will go with you

And when you weary of your path follow it back to its other half, and I will welcome you

The banjo and the fiddle love were meant to sing as one, my love, were meant to sing as one

But now that you are gone from me our song is left unsung my love—my heart, it is unstrung

And when we two once more will meet we’ll make the mountains ring, my love, with all the songs we’ll sing

And on and on. It’s going to be a very long song!

Exploring up toward the peaks, I found a couple of mini-lakes nestled alongside their mama. If it were only a bit warmer, I’d be in this water. Or maybe if the wind wold be still, that would be enough. As it is, I content myself with looking and dreaming of returning some year in late August.

We hiked around the lake for a ways, and then turned back. I can’t remember why. Now that I look at this photo, I just want to keep going around the bend and up that valley toward the heights. Next time.