It starts out “Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting on a train” and then unfolds as one of America’s best love songs, written by Kris Kristofferson and popularized by Janice Joplin, Bobby McGee is what springs into my mind as we are driving in.
This is entirely serendipitous as my neighbor, sojourning in Mammoth asked if this was a radio trip or photographic trip and then tempted me with snaps of aspens near by. Truth is it was simply a hiking trip and social to see Rico. Radios had been tossed into my bags and reflecting on the yellowing aspens, one radio was tossed out and a camera tossed in.
We arrive at zero dark silly and the car park suggests we aren’t the only ones to searching for an Ansel Adams in color.
A little more planning might have clued us into the fact that while the distant high peaks might get washed in sunrise colors, much of McGee Creek would remain in the shade for hours.
Wandering in without a plan, we linger in a grove of aspens looking for something to snap now or in the future. iPhones make great planning tools and I snap a water course wrapping around a rock fully intending to return with tripod and filters. Oh the plans of mice and men….
We stand staring toward the towering Sierra ridge line. Definitely 13,000 ft plus and one might be 14,000ft or more. It’s cold, below 40F and we are huddled into our down parkas. Reward time comes around 6:54am and our ridge line is bathed in deep orange. It’s pretty but photographically boring as much of the view is still dark.
Our randomness persists and we head further up the trail to points unknown. It’s hard not to stop as the valley brightens and marvel at the aspens, the peaks and the solitary aspect of this slice of California.
We’ve learnt of a waterfall near by. We’re going, we’re not going….we head further up the trail veering southward and finding ourselves amidst aspens everywhere. It’s somewhat magical to wander along a silent trail, flanked by such pretty trees; silver trunks, yellowing leaves and occasionally rustling as the wind blows creating an almost castanet sound.
It’s October, the snow has melted and water is scarce. Our lake, has dried up and we wander around its bed not thinking of the trout that might have been here months earlier. We snap away and moments later local sunrise occurs, shadows are replaced with bright color, our down parkas become liabilities and portable saunas.
It’s time to return and retrace out 1,200 ft descent over three or so miles. People are everywhere, the trail is packed, single photographers, trans Pac visitors through to groups of oldies some grimacing and wishing to be else where. Seems like the whole world is here.
A solitary artist has assumed a yoga pose on a rock, rapidly dons more clothing as we approach.
The card park is full, the verge of the approach road is littered with vehicles and expensive camper vans line up for the next vacant spot.
We flee with smiles on our face knowing that the early bird had caught a worm.
