So peaceful and silent, removed from the sounds of industry, miles from any road, just west of the backside of nowhere in Three Sisters Wilderness. Steep ridges on three sides cradle a small jewel of a glacier-fed lake. Cold water trickles down through the lava skree on the east and south slopes, gathering into meandering cascading creeks. One big and fast cold creek churns white into the far bank of the lake and the sound was a constant rush, a lullaby, song of the mountain.
S and JJ and the dogs and I hiked in the late afternoon, navigating the trail up and over a ridge and down into the basin, through the tall dark evergreens, past boulders as big as cars and houses flung by some long-ago volcanic explosion. Tree roots polished from the passage of boots, bear grass tufts and delicate ferns and glossy green rhododendrons and bright green vine maples and wild ginger that spiced the air, then through dry creek bottoms down near the lake, and back up the trail.
The worst part was a monstrous deadfall; some previous wind storm had torn and tumbled seven massive cedar and fir trees across the path, they had cracked and twisted and buckled together. The hillside was too steep and the fallen trees too long to go around, and too big to climb over, so we removed our packs and crawled under while S passed first my pack and then JJ's and then his own over the lowest part of the logs. And a nod goes to S for carrying a pack twice as heavy as mine. He carried the tent and almost all the food, and the cookstove.
We continued around the lake and found a space in a cedar grove that was level enough for two tents, about fifty feet above the water, a steep skree field of gravel and sand below us. The shadows were long and thunderclouds had drifted over the lake, and thunder rumbled to the east, on the flanks of Middle Sister.
S made dinner with small pizza crusts covered with proscuitto, sliced dry mozzarella cheese, and seasoned tomatoes from a jar. Fast, easy, no cooking, no dishes to wash in the dark. And let's not forget the wine; it tastes fine from a tin cup. We could not have a camp fire because the wilderness area has no road access and because the woods are dry, but we enjoyed watching the sun set and the stars appear and disappear beneath the curtain of clouds.
The water reflected the violet and vermillion sky and the ridges went black against the sky. All was silent except for the thunder in the distance, and we sat quietly together, and rubbed shoulders, and spoke softly out of reverence and exhaustion.
I slept very little; between the thunder riding in the heavens and the dogs fidgeting and the sounds of the world creaking on its axis, not to mention the hardest sleeping mat in the world, I spent most of the night wishing for sleep. And then it rained, which at least gave me something to think about, all the droplets tumbling on the rain fly covering the tent. Finally towards dawn I fell into a dreamless sleep.
The next day S went fishing and JJ and I went on a long hike up the fast rushing creek around the far side of the lake. It was some burly hard hiking, scrambling and clambering over haphazard logs and boulders, over snags, through muck and mud, up and down the steep cut banks of the torrential water. We compared scratches and bruises and bug bites later, but the thing that remains is the beauty of the falling water and memory of the cool spray on our sweaty faces.
We had intended to go swimming in the lake but the clouds rolled over us again in the afternoon, and due to work, JJ had to leave rather than stay another night. We said goodbyes and then she with her pack disappeared down the steep bank, on her way back home.
S and I sat and snacked on the food he had brought, nuts and dried fruit, and we sat beneath the cedar boughs when it started to thunder and roll the next ridge over, in between us and Middle Sister. He said mountains make their own weather, and these thunderclouds are orographic. It sounded like the sky was buckling and tearing, big long continuous rolls, the devil racing his chariot. It was so continuous I noticed it best when it would cease for a while.
We only saw lightning once, it cracked at the top of the ridge and reflected in the lake water, an eerie ozone yellow illuminating the clouds. The thunder would have rattled windows if there had been windows to rattle. The rain then fell quietly, and built, making ringlets on the water. We watched in the stillness, only the sound of the rain rippling the water. It rained harder and looked like the lake was boiling, but we were dry beneath the cedar boughs and it was not cold or windy.
After the storm passed to the west, S went fishing again and I tidied camp, took a nap, and then wandered to the small tumbling creek to filter some water into our bottles.
The colors after the rain shone vibrant, clean, clear. Fish rose and made rings on the water, birds came to the lake shore. I watched ouzels, small aquatic birds that look like miniature black penguins, dip and dive beneath the surface. There were no jays in the woods because there were ravens, and I listened to them make their deep calls. Above us, circling to the east, a survey plane from the forest service droned. We figured it was searching for possible fires caused by the lightning, or possibly surveying one that had started on the west face of the Sisters. The faintest breeze rippled the water and stirred the tree tops.
We had trout for dinner, two apiece, cooked with butter in tin foil until the meat fell off the bones. S caught two brook trout and two brown trout, and told me their scientific names and some natural history of both but I can't remember anything other than how delicious they tasted. We had wine again, and flat bread, and dried fruit, and watched the light change from gold to amber to emerald, and then grey and everything looks flat, no depth, no shadows, the surface of the water broken and ringed by big fish in the center of the lake.
When the sun sank below the opposite cusp of the hill, the bats came. I have never seen anything like it. There must have been hundreds of small bats flying less than a foot above the surface of the lake, often landing for a moment befor rising again in strange-winged flutter. The sky and the lake were shining crimson and purples, ancient colors, and the black forms of the bats went sweeping and dodging across the water. The only sound came from the swift rocky creek across on the other side of the lake, that shushing churn of water on rocks.
I slept well; there was no thunder, and no rain. But the ground is still the ground, and we rose soon after dawn, made our packs, and after breakfast and some leisure, hiked back up and over the ridge. It was easier and more difficult; exhaustion wieghed heavy, and the loveliness held its allure, but when we passed the ten-man fire crew hiking into the remote area we found better speed in our steps. Plus the promise of a hot shower and a soft bed made civilization sound acceptable.
S and JJ and the dogs and I hiked in the late afternoon, navigating the trail up and over a ridge and down into the basin, through the tall dark evergreens, past boulders as big as cars and houses flung by some long-ago volcanic explosion. Tree roots polished from the passage of boots, bear grass tufts and delicate ferns and glossy green rhododendrons and bright green vine maples and wild ginger that spiced the air, then through dry creek bottoms down near the lake, and back up the trail.
The worst part was a monstrous deadfall; some previous wind storm had torn and tumbled seven massive cedar and fir trees across the path, they had cracked and twisted and buckled together. The hillside was too steep and the fallen trees too long to go around, and too big to climb over, so we removed our packs and crawled under while S passed first my pack and then JJ's and then his own over the lowest part of the logs. And a nod goes to S for carrying a pack twice as heavy as mine. He carried the tent and almost all the food, and the cookstove.
We continued around the lake and found a space in a cedar grove that was level enough for two tents, about fifty feet above the water, a steep skree field of gravel and sand below us. The shadows were long and thunderclouds had drifted over the lake, and thunder rumbled to the east, on the flanks of Middle Sister.
S made dinner with small pizza crusts covered with proscuitto, sliced dry mozzarella cheese, and seasoned tomatoes from a jar. Fast, easy, no cooking, no dishes to wash in the dark. And let's not forget the wine; it tastes fine from a tin cup. We could not have a camp fire because the wilderness area has no road access and because the woods are dry, but we enjoyed watching the sun set and the stars appear and disappear beneath the curtain of clouds.
The water reflected the violet and vermillion sky and the ridges went black against the sky. All was silent except for the thunder in the distance, and we sat quietly together, and rubbed shoulders, and spoke softly out of reverence and exhaustion.
I slept very little; between the thunder riding in the heavens and the dogs fidgeting and the sounds of the world creaking on its axis, not to mention the hardest sleeping mat in the world, I spent most of the night wishing for sleep. And then it rained, which at least gave me something to think about, all the droplets tumbling on the rain fly covering the tent. Finally towards dawn I fell into a dreamless sleep.
The next day S went fishing and JJ and I went on a long hike up the fast rushing creek around the far side of the lake. It was some burly hard hiking, scrambling and clambering over haphazard logs and boulders, over snags, through muck and mud, up and down the steep cut banks of the torrential water. We compared scratches and bruises and bug bites later, but the thing that remains is the beauty of the falling water and memory of the cool spray on our sweaty faces.
We had intended to go swimming in the lake but the clouds rolled over us again in the afternoon, and due to work, JJ had to leave rather than stay another night. We said goodbyes and then she with her pack disappeared down the steep bank, on her way back home.
S and I sat and snacked on the food he had brought, nuts and dried fruit, and we sat beneath the cedar boughs when it started to thunder and roll the next ridge over, in between us and Middle Sister. He said mountains make their own weather, and these thunderclouds are orographic. It sounded like the sky was buckling and tearing, big long continuous rolls, the devil racing his chariot. It was so continuous I noticed it best when it would cease for a while.
We only saw lightning once, it cracked at the top of the ridge and reflected in the lake water, an eerie ozone yellow illuminating the clouds. The thunder would have rattled windows if there had been windows to rattle. The rain then fell quietly, and built, making ringlets on the water. We watched in the stillness, only the sound of the rain rippling the water. It rained harder and looked like the lake was boiling, but we were dry beneath the cedar boughs and it was not cold or windy.
After the storm passed to the west, S went fishing again and I tidied camp, took a nap, and then wandered to the small tumbling creek to filter some water into our bottles.
The colors after the rain shone vibrant, clean, clear. Fish rose and made rings on the water, birds came to the lake shore. I watched ouzels, small aquatic birds that look like miniature black penguins, dip and dive beneath the surface. There were no jays in the woods because there were ravens, and I listened to them make their deep calls. Above us, circling to the east, a survey plane from the forest service droned. We figured it was searching for possible fires caused by the lightning, or possibly surveying one that had started on the west face of the Sisters. The faintest breeze rippled the water and stirred the tree tops.
We had trout for dinner, two apiece, cooked with butter in tin foil until the meat fell off the bones. S caught two brook trout and two brown trout, and told me their scientific names and some natural history of both but I can't remember anything other than how delicious they tasted. We had wine again, and flat bread, and dried fruit, and watched the light change from gold to amber to emerald, and then grey and everything looks flat, no depth, no shadows, the surface of the water broken and ringed by big fish in the center of the lake.
When the sun sank below the opposite cusp of the hill, the bats came. I have never seen anything like it. There must have been hundreds of small bats flying less than a foot above the surface of the lake, often landing for a moment befor rising again in strange-winged flutter. The sky and the lake were shining crimson and purples, ancient colors, and the black forms of the bats went sweeping and dodging across the water. The only sound came from the swift rocky creek across on the other side of the lake, that shushing churn of water on rocks.
I slept well; there was no thunder, and no rain. But the ground is still the ground, and we rose soon after dawn, made our packs, and after breakfast and some leisure, hiked back up and over the ridge. It was easier and more difficult; exhaustion wieghed heavy, and the loveliness held its allure, but when we passed the ten-man fire crew hiking into the remote area we found better speed in our steps. Plus the promise of a hot shower and a soft bed made civilization sound acceptable.
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