Lesley and I visited the
Sierra mountains near
Lake Tahoe, on a December weekend when the great
majority of recreationists stayed home. We drove her old reliable
station wagon uphill through cold rain, which became wet snow once we
reached the elevation of 5,000 feet. And finally, in the dark, we
arrived the entrance of Clair Tappan Lodge, and walked the final 100
yards to the heavy wooden front door. The vanilla smell of the
Sierras was instantly recognizable, as we trudged ankle-deep in wet
snow, schlepping our gear. We gladly stepped inside, where it was
dry and warm. In the Lewis and Clark room, we sat by the fire, and
met new friends. The rain and snow made conditions for skiing or
snowboarding less than ideal. Therefore, only six or so souls,
ourselves included, occupied the lodge per night.
The next day, it was hard to pull
ourselves away from the fire. There were books to read and tea to
drink and sketchbooks to draw in and online courses to complete for
the renewal of our EMT certifications. The wind billowed against the
windows of the lodge and the rain fell hard. Lesley and I are people
who love the woods, regardless of weather. However, she was
recovering from a cold, and wished to be cautious. In the afternoon,
our opportunity arose, with a moment of clear blue sky, and light
rain only. We saddled ourselves up with backpacks and snowshoes and
ski poles, and into the woods we went. We followed a trail called the "main drag."
All about us, the red firs,
Abies
magnifica, stretched for the sky, their trunks nearly black in color.
Upon them, stag-horn lichens glowed yellow-green, like fluorescent
lights. And there were lodgepole pines, and hemlocks, and spruces.
We sloshed our way through sloshy snow, which was a foot deep in
places. Breaking trail through the icy sludge was not easy. I
walked in Lesley's footsteps for a spell, then took my turn. (And
compared the former to
Good King Wencelas.)
Save the moans of the wind, it was
quiet. Except for the rhythmic sway of the treetops—back and forth
like a pendulum—it was still. I teadily put one foot and one pole
in front of the other, in front of the other. I had to keep my
thermal engine pumping its pistons. We were two spots of warmth, in
a polar landscape.
The forest seemed empty of animals, but
they were nearby. Under cover of bark or earth, escaped from the
wind and rain. Some animals, on the other hand, were quite
unperturbed by the elements. We crossed footprints, a line of them,
from a small canid. Perhaps a fox. Squirrels, too, had left their
marks in the snow.
And then a black form swooped past us.
The raven finished its concave arc, and alighted atop a dead tree.
It croaked and called, and proclaimed itself lord of the realm. Then
it flapped and rose from the tree and into the wind. It beat its
wings strong, but hovered like a helicopter, against the wind's push.
Then the raven broke the stalemate, and soared onward, and out of
sight.
We came finally to the Lytton Lake, our
destination. Or rather, the rippling snowy field, with boulders and
forest beyond. The map assured us of a lake under the snow. We
turned around, and commenced our return trip.
We stepped into a copse of trees, and
felt the calm. Their trunks kept the wind at bay; we had a safe
fortress. From the side of my backpack, I removed a gift. A thermos
of hot tea. It warmed our hearts, both figuratively and literally.
In this landscape of rolling hills,
rocky and snow-covered, the trees stood strong. The rain began to
fall again and the wind grew stronger, and the trees swayed but
stood. For many centuries, they had braved every storm, and then
the coldest depths of winter and the scorching summer heat. The
weathered old giants took the monsoons and droughts, undaunted. As
for me, I was glad that we had taken some of their brothers and
sisters, and fashioned their strong bodies into a house. With a fire
inside, wherein I could warm myself. I thanked the trees, and
quickened my pace for the hike home.
