July 17, 2005

Maneaten Lake

I'm filthy, bleeding, bruised, and slumped with fatigue. The annual backpacking trip with Erin and her dad was glorious, excrutiating, and too short.

Plan A was Shelly Lake, but on arrival we found that the bridge to the trailhead had washed out some time ago.

Plan B was nearby Kidder Lake. After spending four hours hiking there, we were all a little tired and my feet were already blistered. Even so, we decided we didn't like this lake. It's small, shallow, and green with algae, and besides, another party was already camped there.

We pressed on to Plan C: Maneaten Lake. This segment of our trail was more challenging, consisting mainly of steep, rocky switchbacks exposed to the blazing sun. Gasping in the high air, we climbed another 2,000 feet toward a sharp, narrow, rocky pass, briefly losing the trail in a late-melting snowfield.

This is where backpacking provokes a violent emotional release. Pain and determination collide, and it seems as though the very terrain enrages us. Our imaginations run wild with paranoid fantasies. We curse the mountain and our companions and vow never again to come along on one of these wretched trips.

But when we finally scramble over the top of a desolate pass, our fragile emotions take a dizzying swing. A sublime scene bursts into view: Hundreds of varieties of alpine wildflowers. A steep, granite cirque 500 feet deep, gouged by roaring, snow-fed waterfalls. At the bottom, a clear, blue lake sparkling in the sun. Beyond, a narrow lip over which the lake spills into a fathomless, evergreen valley. The smiling faces of our companions. I wept with exhilaration when I saw Maneaten Lake!

But when Lowell scrambled down a rough, nearly vertical proto-trail, he found no way to reach any sort of lakeshore; it was precipitous scree all the way around, and the way only got more treacherous as he descended. It would have been madness to continue. Calling out to us to stay put, he dragged himself and his 50-pound pack back up the sliding pit, and by the time we regrouped, Lowell was beaten. Phoenix fared the worst, hauling a 12-pound pack over broken rocks on bare, raw paws. "Call to him," yelled Lowell when the poor dog lay down on the scree and refused to move. I did, and he revived just enough to finish the climb.

The decision to retreat was a hard one. But waiting for us just outside the cirque was an idyllic camp site, situated along a rocky meadow stuffed with wildflowers, an ice-cold creek, and a clear pond warmed by the sun, with a view of the whole mountain range, plus Mount Shasta on the horizon.

It had now been nine hours since we started out, and all self-censorship had ceased. We wasted none of our scarce energy on diplomacy or frivolous chit-chat as we wearily set up camp and ate dinner. "Want more soup?" "No I do not. Going to bed." And soon our aching bodies were fast asleep under the stars, grateful for fluffy sleeping bags and fine mosquito netting.

The next day was spent dozing in the shade, sitting in the warm pond soaking our skins and catching tadpoles, drawing water from the cold creek, gathering firewood (and an old, broken USFS shovel I found), washing our dusty hair, and watching a parade go by.

Our site straddled the Pacific Crest Trail, popular with the hard-core through-hikers. Of the five parties that passed by, only one, a trio of fishermen, was on a weekend hike. The other four were travelling all the way from Mexico to Canada. One of them was running the entire trail, with the tiniest pack on his back and an elaborate support crew delivering provisions to the trailheads on a pre-arranged schedule.

In the evening, we read to each other:

Letter to President Van Buren by Ralph Waldo Emerson
"A Bread Famine" from My First Summer In The Sierra by John Muir
By now, most of our pain had subsided and we were able to enjoy the sunset and a few hands of gin rummy before bed. The next day's hike out was mostly downhill, and we finished it in four hours, arriving at the truck by noon. Soon we were glad we hadn't dillydallied; on Interstate 5, the temperature was 118 Fahrenheit, hotter than our air conditioning could compensate for. We comforted ourselves with cheeseburgers and iced soft drinks before embarking on the six-hour drive home.

The bath I took tonight was magnificent: scented oil, music, an Indian take-out dinner, and a thorough scrubbing, followed by the re-bandaging of my wounded feet. I'm impatient for their healing so that I can do it all again!

I've really got to get myself a trekking pole. My stressed-out knees demand it.

July 6, 2005

Three Documentaries

After an annoying day, I set off to see a movie—and it snowballed into a moviegoing rampage! I biked from theater to theater and saw three fantastic documentaries:

March of The Penguins

You know how much I like nature documentaries, and this one is spectacular. Originally in French, it's narrated in English by Morgan Freeman. Every fall, the Emperor penguins pop out of the ocean, trundle across the icy wasteland to their ancient breeding ground, and pair up. For the entire Antarctic winter, the penguins tend their fragile offspring in shifts, taking turns to walk the 70 miles back to the water to fetch food for themselves and their chicks. Though of course there are the requisite moments of natural tragedy, mostly penguins and their chicks are just really cute and silly, with rich social and emotional lives. This one was the most popular, and the audience giggled a lot.

Rize

This was the most powerful and enlightening movie of the evening. Lots of (mainly black) kids in LA are staying out of trouble by clowning and krumping. It's a modern reinterpretation of African warrior dances: painted faces, aggressive dancing and moshlike shoving, and sometimes spontaneous re-enactments of conflicts like beatings, riots, or gang wars. It's athletic, creative, competetive, and cathartic. I felt very white and rhythmless, but it's a really exciting and inspiring movie.

Mad Hot Ballroom

In New York, many fifth-graders are required to take ballroom dancing. The course culminates in a city-wide competition, by which time the kids have even learned to stand up tall, be courteous to each other, and groom themselves nicely. The finalists are elegant little dancers and fiercely proud of their new skills. One shy, fresh-off-the-boat Dominican boy spoke virtually no English, but sheesh that kid could move, and by the end of the movie he was beaming and revelling with his teammates. I kindof want to sign up for classes at the Metronome, if only my plate weren't already full. That said, this movie was the weakest one of the evening, just sorta sloppy.

Documentaries sure are popular lately. They've become a lot more exciting than they used to be! Instead of a string of static scenes overdubbed in a monotone, filmmakers are creating vivid, dynamic narratives. That's edutainment! Next, I want to see Murderball; I missed it at the Hot Docs festival in April, but it's opening in SF on the 22nd.