We were preparing for the
long hike: 11,760 feet to Kersage pass carrying our sleeping bags, tents, crunched up food in two bear canisters, a lot of water, a small propane powered stove, propane canisters, tools, clothes and other small items like chap stick. My father and brother were carrying about 30 pounds of equipment on their backs. I was only carrying
15 pounds though because they were gentlemen and in no way could I manage 30 pounds, having exercised a little to none within the past months. Our
breakfast was cookies and water. We left the car in the parking lot and started up the path.
I was keeping up at first,
but I began to tire after the first mile. The backpack began to dig into my shoulders and where before I was
breathing calmly through my nose, I now was gasping for air. The wind cooled my face, but my harsh breathing burned my
throat. I didn’t say
anything yet though, because my father and brother didn’t seem to be struggling
and I didn’t want to be the one to hold them up. I reassured myself that I wasn’t weak. I was suffering from jet lag, having come up northeast 239 miles, which wasn't much I realized, but anything to reassure my ego.
We had reached the first lake and took a break at a giant boulder, setting our backpacks down. I grabbed a Tiger Milk bar while my
brother glared. At REI, he made it clear that the Tiger Milk bars
were his and that I could have the PowerBars. I ate the Tiger Milk
bar in front of him.
The wind went whistling through the
mountain pass. It was cool and dry. There were a couple
of other straggling backpackers making their way up the meandering pass. I had been to Yosemite National Park before and the contrasts between this part of the Sierra and the other parts forming Yosemite is incredibly stark. Yosemite is swarming with not only state and national backpackers and campers, but also international people too. Here, I've seen maybe 10 people pass by us.
We were on the east side
of the Sierra Nevadas, near Owens Valley, an already desolate place due to the rain shadow of the mountain. I learned in my geography course that when the westerly winds confront the west face of the Sierra, the winds rise up the mountains creating uplift, which in turn, produces rainfall and snowfall. However, the east side, without the westerlies, becomes a desert or steppe climate. As
we were driving up from Los Angeles, passing the valley I thought that the city
had an abandoned feel to it. “There’s Manzanar,” my dad said at one
point. It looked like nothing more but a skeleton of what remained
of the barracks. As we passed Manzanar I thought, what a lonely place. It’s a
desert, barren and bleak. But actually, it wasn't exactly so.
Through my school, Pasadena City College, I recently got to go the Manzanar Pilgrimage. I witnessed a vibrant community surrounding the event. Taiko drums call out resoundingly and people of many faiths come together at the event. Colorful paper cranes hang at the foot of the monument near a man playing the bag pipes.
I stared at the still waters of the lake thinking about Manzanar and Owens Valley left to dust after the LA aqueduct. The water of the lake weas trapped in what looked like a giant pothole, which explains its name big
Pothole Lake, created by glaciation that once covered the Sierra with 100 miles of ice during the Pleistocene Epoch. Gradually, my breathing steadied and I finished the last bit of the Tiger Milk bar. This isn’t so bad, I thought. Then, my
father strapped on his backpack and suggested we go on.
We walked mostly in silence. My father's a man of few words, not that he's emotionally distant though. We talk aplenty when there's something to talk about, but when there isn't we succumb to our own thoughts. My brother was lost in his own reverie, and was about fifty meters away so I couldn't speak to him.
Rain shadow east of the Sierra |
Manzanar Pilgrimage April 2011 |
Through my school, Pasadena City College, I recently got to go the Manzanar Pilgrimage. I witnessed a vibrant community surrounding the event. Taiko drums call out resoundingly and people of many faiths come together at the event. Colorful paper cranes hang at the foot of the monument near a man playing the bag pipes.
Pothole Lake created from glaciation millions of years ago |
The path incline became slightly
steeper. I could hear only the crunch of the rocks under my
shoes. I stopped frequently with the pretext of needing a stretch,
turning right to left while trying to catch my breath. I fiddled
with the backpack adjustments until my dad said, “Only a few hundred meters
more.”
"What’s that in feet?” I asked.
"What’s that in feet?” I asked.
“Like six to eight hundred,” he replied. I sighed resignedly, but began counting the steps I took, looking forward to the moment I reached six to eight hundred.
A view from the top |
What lies on the other side |