Smoky October 13 - 16, 2004 Last moments of this year's fall in Sierra Nevada

	Midget's outing: Tom wrestles with a resting Sid

	Gold has been spilled over the country Slopes below Kavanaugh Ridge near Mono Lake.

Our whaling expedition brought us inspiration - mostly the fact that we for once wrote our journals about something else than Tommy. It has been the second year (if I include my problematic pregnancy) that we submit to our midget -- and highest time to make the midget submit to us for a change.

Still, with regard to Tom, we would not risk just to drive out, now that winter is almost upon us, hence I reserved our first two nights in our proven, friendly Ruby Inn at Bridgeport. We had no idea how close we would escape a rapid advance of winter.
Our trip schedule was very fuzzy, unlike the clear and crisp weather. One does not have to worry that Eastern Sierra would not have things to see or places to go. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

A trip with a baby is not an easy thing - I spent part of Wednesday packing by myself; adding Sid on Thursday doubled the effort, while our offspring kept throwing us disturbed looks. Tom hates packing and usually emits unmistakable noises, meaning that he does not wish to be left behind. He quieted down eventually, when we put him in the car -- and while he readjusted controls around the steering wheel, we labored to load everything necessary into our wagon's back, plus equipment for emergency camping. We actually managed to drive out before noon -- and Tom slept all the way to Tracy. He would have slept on, had we not stopped for gas. A cranky, just awaken baby hippo is best quieted with food (just like the big hippo) and I'd like to use this opportunity to boast that it was me who noticed a billboard near an exit advertising Japanese and Chinese All You Can Eat. Tracy Buffet may not be easy to find, but judging by full parking lot, local experts know it well. For seven dollars per person, we received unlimited Asian meals. They make sushi on the spot and in small batches, so there are no tired, weathered fish -- everything is very fresh. Tom devoured his baby food and since he kept on gazing longingly at the buffet stuff, I allowed him an ice cream cone wafer (without the ice cream, of course). Tommy was beside himself -- it's great to hold, it crunches wonderfully, and one can eat it!

	Baby-Backpacking on Lembert Dome

	A view to Tuolumne Meadows as well as most of North-east Yosemite.

Still ahead of us was driving through Central Valley and all of Yosemite. We worked it out with two stops, during which Tom could stretch away stiffness from his baby seat. It was all dark, when we arrived at Casa Michaela near Bridgeport, the only passable local dinning establishment. Fortunately for us, this our favorite Mexican eatery was rather empty, and its lacquered board floor rather clean, so we could again release Tom into the space. More people arrived while we ate, still Tom managed to have a chat with their antique stove. See - Tommy loves our fireplace. He could have been a boilerman in his past life, for he lovingly polishes its door handle, and talks wisely and at length to the stove glass window behind which we still did not make fire, over two years into owning our house. A historical, decorative, probably dysfunctional stove at Casa Michaela might have reminded him of home, so he went to have a friendly chat. He also met the mustached owner of the restaurant, who came to hold this blond, blue-eyed baby.

Motel owner - Steve Noble - awaited us at his office, and a crib was ready in our room, though we did not request it. Ruby Inn represents one of the more expensive accommodation alternatives for us, but it is worth for its nice family business atmosphere, obvious careful maintenance and comfortable cleanliness (it has been one of the few hotels where I don't feel squeamish in the bathroom). Another advantage is Hays Street Cafe nearby -- where one can have a breakfast with a fresh, "bottomless" coffee and a view to Sierra mountains, framed by country style curtains like in some Black Forest hut. When we noticed that a line of sour, hungry faces, waiting for free tables, endured throughout our meal even on a workday, we made sure to make a reservation for Saturday. I would like to give a special praise to Tommy - who sat nicely in his chair and carefully ate his cereal and my toast. He had had no idea how busy day lay ahead.

	On the top of Lembert Dome

	A dark smoky dragon crawls through sun-filled landscape near Bridgeport

While on our way to Yosemite National Park, we planned light-headedly about going first to Taft Point, and then while returning, we would run up Lembert Dome. Luckily Tom was smarter than both of us and began protesting his seat confinement before we reached Lembert, which made us switch our plans -- hiking Lembert first and then driving over whole Yosemite to Taft. Lembert Dome appears to be just a hill on the side of the road, we reckoned getting up on it would not be difficult. Alas, this high in the mountains, your eyes can deceive you. A four-mile, curving trail ascends 850 feet, which combined with twenty five pounds of live load is a back-breaking burden even for a Hippo. Our living in a house some eighteen feet above sea level does not help, for we quite felt those nine thousand feet difference of adequately thinner air. And, of course, we're pretty out of shape losers, who had been neglecting to go on trips for two years . Lembert Dome simply gave us hell -- the round trip took us four hours, that including feeding and stretching stop for Tom, crawling around Lembert's tops and taking pictures.
The view from Lembert Dome to Tuolumne Meadows with Yosemite backdrop is very pretty; ours was, however, slightly spoiled by a huge smoke cloud coming from north. And since park newsletter informed us about "controlled burns", we cursed them meddling rangers. It has been my impression that nature does not like to be interfered with much by anyone, and fires that get out of control by the uniformed arsonists are pretty common here. This time we were wrong, but did not know it at the time.

	Buckeye Creek Hot Springs Boiling hot spring water, icy cold creek water

	Tom and Sid in a hot bath

Naturally, after such a hike, trundling across the whole Yosemite (about an hour and half or two) and then hiking up to Taft point, lost its appeal -- especially with our potential view to the famous Yosemite Valley marred by smoke. On the other hand, an idea of immersing ourselves into a hot bath on a sunny autumn day overlooking golden-leaved trees, became quite irresistible. Once we left Yosemite through Tioga Pass and looked down to Mono Lake though, we got pretty startled. More smoke was pouring through northern Sierra passes, so much we feared Buckeye itself was on fire. It was not, but a smoky haze drifted towards the creek from the west there, turning the sun to bloody red. Optically it gave the impression of deep-freezing winter's day (a jagged sun hiding behind snow-laden clouds), while in reality the sun kept its California strength -- making me squirm for it make me feel being licked by the flames of the wildfire, which was really several dozens of miles distant. As we had found later, the nearest fire happened at Hetch Hetchy reservoir, on the opposite side of the mountain range, and was started by an unsanctioned arsonist.

Hot springs at Buckeye Creek are located inside a National Forest area - therefore open for "public recreation". They're relatively known and often visited; by both local residents and far-traveling flower-power crowd, who back then tried to live a love-filled communism here, and now conserve their nostalgia by returning at least on weekends to the favorite spots of their youth.
All sorts of visitors happen to be orderly, keeping in the creek a cascade of pools laid out in boulders. A hot stream pours over a rocky slope into the creek, where it mixes with its icy cold waters, thus the temperature of individual pools can be relatively easily regulated. With regard to Tom we first dropped into the fourth pool, but Sid said that it was too cold and we moved upstream. He was probably right, as Tom seemed merrier in the warmer water and splashed about happily. This must have been our most comfortable visit to Buckeye ever -- it being a weekday, no one occupied the springs. A few fishermen drifted about up the river; they ignored us and we paid back the same coin. We did not upset their fish, and they did not get upset by us running around naked -- so much for the proverbial American "prudishness".

	A cabin at 10,000 ft altitude.

	Blue Lake

We chose to have a dinner at Mountain View BBQ in Walker, giving ourselves an opportunity to check out whether any smoke reached Sonora Pass. Alas, Walker, too, lay under the cover of gloomy gray, which I would tend to consider a normal, Czech, autumn haze. The scenery was so intimately familiar that one wonders whether creepy October weather in Central Europe does not simply come from winter heating season having begun in Rhune-Ruhr, Germany.

With the owner of Texan barbecue we talked about wildfires, his business, where we regularly and very gladly return to, and about Tom's diet. He did not blink twice and served our junior his first baked potato with cheese. Our poor Tommy smacked his lips with delight over this delicacy, not knowing that his mommy's version includes a fantastic beef, sour cream and other great stuff. Our theme, however, turned around our future options:
(a) on the next day, i.e. Saturday morning, we would not check out of Bridgeport, but keep the room for another night and explore Bodie or something in the vicinity,
(b) leave the smoky Bridgeport in the morning towards south, checking out Owens River Ridge, returning home around Sierra through Tehachapi, or
(c) leave in the morning from Bridgeport straight home, and spend Sunday back in our house.

We resolved it by tuning to a weather forecast in the morning. We really did not have much choice -- increasing overcast, nightly showers, snow in the mountains. There are several passes cutting through Sierra Nevada -- those closest to us are Tioga a Sonora, each about ten thousand feet. Caltrans (road maintenance) responds to first snow by closing the roads and having more coffee (or something like that). They manage to get around ploughing them by the end of May, only a few weeks before school summer holidays. Passes with similar or higher altitude around Lake Tahoe are kept passable throughout the whole winter, for otherwise local ski lifts would see no business and casinos on Nevada side would stay empty. Central Sierra -- a mere nature -- becomes out of reach for many months, and there's no other way than driving around from north by Tahoe, or from south through Tehachapi Pass, which is a long way. Thus we opted for retreat. Considering Tom, it did not seem right to drive on for ten, twelve hours in rain and sleet, looking for an open route over the mountains, without a place to stop and stretch.

	Water from Blue Lake forms this Emerald Bog

	Our caring Hippo got thoroughly ridden this time, he got almost overridden.

Yet the day was still young, the sun was hypocritically shining on golden autumn leaves, and nothing would indicate that within twelve hours, winter should arrive, which would cut off whole eastern side of Sierra and bring so much snow that on the following weekend, ski resorts could open. Following a recommendation of a receptionist at the Ruby Inn, we rushed towards Virginia Lakes, having decided to drive home in the evening.

All your ordinary tourists crowd a few miles to the south, in the Yosemite National Park, thus leaving Virginia Lakes for fishermen. When we stopped and asked a random woman where the trail went from the parking lot, she replied that nobody knows, grabbed her collapsible chair and a fishing rod, and walked those few yards to the nearest lake. And so we embarked onto a mystery journey -- into the wilderness (actually, Hoover Wilderness). Virginia Lakes are the lowest step of a mountain lake cascade; the trail winds from one lake to the next, offering breathtaking views. Unlike uniform, pale Yosemite granite, colorful volcanic rocks are scattered here, giving the landscape a different hue and style than one finds in the National Park, but not less pretty. To the contrary -- on the trail you won't collide or play catch-up with "mountaineers" equipped with ubiquitous, shining new, telescopic hiking poles, which are professionally color-matched with their brand-name sports jackets; you won't need to pity the shivering blue, adolescent girls in bare-belly-button shirts, flimsy shorts and fancy sandals, who's bovine gazes scan the landscape hopelessly for the nearest shopping mall; you won't hear the omnipresent roar of their cars from the valley.

The road ends at Big Virginia Lake, mere 9,805 feet above sea level; upper lakes reach over ten thousand. At his altitude, you become familiar with "lunar" weather -- it's hot in the sun, and quite cold in shade. Now add the majestic quiet of the mountains, only slightly disturbed by an icy, bubbling brook; clean mountain air that plays havoc with your distance estimates, trees clothed in autumn colors, and you get the (perfect) picture.

	Our temporary point of return - Cooney Lake

	Other things than leaves showed golden colors (Dunderberg Peak 12,374 ft behind)

Our way went past an old prospector's cabin. Strangely, it had a window towards north while its southern wall had none. Perhaps it was used for summers only -- a shelter from the heat.

Just a few paces uphill from the cabin, a grand view opened before us, revealing Cooney Lake, 10,246 feet (3,123 meters) above sea. The trail continued on to more and more lakes, but our embarrassed Hippo of burden kept breathing heavily, while I continued to complain bitterly on the account of stinging pain in my knee ligament -- we had also underestimated the extent of this hike, as far as equipment we were carrying. We packed just for a little walk, and had no real food for Tom; Sid did not even bring his heavy camera along, which he regretted many times. Then there was this the long ride home hovering like a ghost hovering over us, and so we had our last good look around, and then signaled for retreat, promising ourselves to return to these lakes again in the future, with more time and more thoroughly.

Driving home was long and tiresome, plagued by smoke across the whole national park. A Sunday view from our home's window (rain) and news about Yosemite overrun by a snowstorm and tourist being rescued from their longer hikes by helicopters, confirmed that we indeed had a good reason to return soon enough.

Copyright © 2004-2005 by Carol & Sid Paral. All rights reserved.