Wes and I recovered quickly from our arduous climb to Minaret Lake, and after a short while of sitting under the lone tree that was close to our camp we decided to get busy. We were both hungry so we lit a fire in the rock fire pit that we had built. The nearby stream seemed to contain clean snowmelt off of the white stuff which crowned the nearby peaks and so we scooped up a couple of pans full with which to cook up some of our freeze dried dinners. It was probably beef stroganoff for me, and as I recall the finished product did roughly resemble beef stroganoff. I certainly remember that it tasted wonderful, but then sitting in paradise at 9.800 feet eating food cooked over an open fire, I could have eaten the sole of one of my K-Mart boots and liked it just as much.
Wes suggested that we explore the valley in which we were camped and so after cleaning up our mess we began to poke around the area. One of the first things that we noticed was that even at 9.800 feet mosquitos lived near water. And they were big suckers, too. While not as numerous as I’ve seen elsewhere, these guys were on steroids. As we walked along the lake shore the little vampires rose up and attacked like kamakazis. They would bite anywhere, including through denim jeans. I had completely failed to take mosquitos into account and was therefore defenseless. Wes had a small amount of a commercial insect repellant in his kit but it was nearly gone. I could see that Wes’ repellant wouldn’t last long even if he was the only one using it, and it didn’t seem right that he should suffer more because I neglected a pretty basic tenet of camping. I declined his offer to share and continued slapping at the little monsters, leaving bloody splotches on my arms, face, and jeans.
At one point we jumped over a small stream and mounted one of the rounded rocks near where the trail rose up out of the valley below. Lying on the ground on the other side of the boulder was the remains of a camp which did not appear to be more than a week old. We could see where the tent pegs had been driven into the ground, where the campfire had been, and where the garbage still was. Up next to the rock were two large black plastic bags with all manner of cans and paper products and uneaten meals and, most amazing of all, empty bottles of one of the cheapest and nastiest pop wines on the market at that time.
Wes and I stood there looking at the mess with disgust and astonishment, and did not hear the sound of the horse’s hooves until the beast hove into view over the same rise that we had surmounted earlier that day. Seated atop that horse was a forest ranger who was making his rounds. I believe that the ranger saw us before we saw him because he never once gave us the impression that he connected us with that pile of trash. I’m certain that he could read the disgust on our faces as plain as day.
“Good afternoon boys. How is your day going?” he asked.
“We were doing fine until we saw this mess” was my reply. “What I want to know, beyond why somebody would leave this crap in a place like this is how they got it here at all.” When every box, can and bottle in that pile war full it would have amounted to a lot of weight.
“They probably got it here the same way that I got here. Usually a party of hikers will be met by someone with a pack horse who will bring their supplies in here. It doesn’t happen a lot and usually they clean up after themselves, but this is not the first pile of shit that we’ve had to haul off of the mountain. Someone will be back later to pack that stuff out of here.” I couldn’t help but wonder how somebody with the resources to have access to a pack horse would stoop to drinking that increadibly nasty wine, but they were clearly bottom-feeders so I left it alone.
“What kind of camp have you set up?” the ranger continued. We showed him our camp in the distance and described our equipment and plan, which was limited to exploring, relaxing, fishing, and maybe a little reading. Wes and I were both avid readers.
“The only thing bothering me is that I forgot mosquito repellant” I commented in an off-hand way. The ranger scowled and said “They’ll eat you alive.” He reached into his saddle pack and retrieved an olive drab can with a spray nozzle on the top. “This will keep the little bastards off of you” he said as he tossed the can to me. The can was classic government issue. As I wrote earlier it was olive drab, with some code of letters and numbers denoting what item number it was in some catalogue somewhere, and written across the can was INSECT REPELLANT in black letters which blended into the deep green of the can. I gladly accepted and sprayed myself down, and as I handed it back the ranger smiled and said “Keep it. I’ve got plenty.” I don’t know what was in that insect repellant but I am certain that it had a plutonium base. The mosquitos never bothered me again on that trip.
The ranger told us that someone would probably be back the next day to clean up the mess and waved goodbye. We returned the wave and continued with our exploration of the valley, which was in fact more like a shelf. We jumped over creeks, waded gingerly through marshy ground, and eventually came back to our camp. The day was creeping into evening, and shadows from the cliff behind us began to advance across the valley floor. Wes began to fiddle with his very light weight, collapsable fishing rod and other gear while I laid back against the tree with a book. We could cook dinner in the shadows of evening but it would be hard to read or do much else, and that is pretty much how we spent the rest of that day.
After cooking and cleaning up, night fell upon us like an onrushing train. Wes and I pulled out our half-pints of cheap bourbon whiskey that we had brought and drank a swallow or two before turning in. I shed my shirt and jeans and crawled into my mummy bag. Even in mid summer the nights can be pretty cool at 9,800 feet, especially with a wind blowing off of the showpack even higher up. I felt perfectly comfortable lying in my bag on a thin foam pad in my little tent. The darkness was as nearly pitch black as it could be, especially as I was cut off from the starlight in my tent, and there were almost no sounds apart from the occasional rustling of the grasses by a light wind. I lay there awake for a short while, alternately nervous in the unfamiliarity of near total dark and near total silence, and utterly relaxed in those same phenomena. I was reflecting on that duality and the next thing of which I was aware was the light of a new day penetrating the nylon of my tent.
After leaving my mummy bag and dressing quickly in the chill of the morning I emerged from my tent and immediately got a fire going. I knew that Wes wouldn’t be far behind me and coffee would be needed on an emergency basis. I took a nip of bourbon to get the blood moving and then went to get a couple of pans of water from the nearby creek. By the time I returned Wes was sitting on a rock close to the fire pulling supplies out of the pack which we had hoisted into the tree the evening before. In no time at all we had breakfast and coffee prepared and ate one of the finest meals ever cooked.
After putting our camp in order we prepared for our first adventure of the day. Behind us rose the 800 foot cliff which I previously described and at that height, nestled in a bowl created by the confluence of the cliff and the Minarets, lay Cecil Lake at 10,400 feet. The book that we brought with us said that there was a steep trail which led over the top of the ridge and sure enough, we found that trail. Steep, however, was an understatement. The climb was as close to vertical as one could get without going hand-over-hand, and near the top that’s just what we did.
The payoff, however, was worth every exertion. Cecil Lake lay cradled in its stony crib with little more than rock, ice, snow, and water making up the scene. The starkness of the environment had a severe beauty and Wes and I simply sat for a while admiring it. Broken rock had tumbled down the steep sides of this natural bowl with little growth of any kind poking up from between the jagged stones. The lake had a fifteen to twenty foot ring of ice extending from the shore towards the center of the lake, with the ice-free bulk of that center even more blue than Minaret Lake below. The picture was stunningly beautiful. Rising from our rocky perch we carefully crossed over to the other side of the bowl, disturbing marmots who somehow lived in that sterile-looking place. Climbing the bank on the other side we gained the rim to look out over a vast scape of mountain peaks, most of them at a lower altitude than we were, which stretched west across the Sierras towards Yosemite and beyond that the great central valley of California.
After taking in the view for a good long while we retraced our steps and returned to camp. We had taken a couple of hours to climb the cliff and return and we wanted to try our luck with fishing in Minaret Lake. Our gear was as simple as we could make it, but we had enough to try bait, lure, and fly. Unfortunately, none of them seemed at all tempting to the fish. We would switch baits, we would move to other spots, we pulled in our lines and then returned in the evening, and nothing worked. I suppose it’s possible that there weren’t any fish in that lake at all. I don’t see how they could have gotten there in the first place, but as I have heard elsewhere, “Life finds a way.” We finally threw in the towel and broke down our rods and stashed our gear away.
The trout dinner which we had expected had to be substituted with more of the freeze-dried food that we had packed in with us, and we were eating that at a faster rate than we expected. The exertion of the climbs on both days, the general exhilaration of being so far into mostly unspoiled nature, and the fact that we were two twenty-one year old men with serious appetites, combined to make us literally chew our way through our supplies a lot more quickly than we had intended. Taking stock, we saw that we had enough for one more day, but we would have nothing for breakfast the morning after that. Our path back may have led downhill but it was still eight miles, and neither of us relished that long of a walk on an empty stomach. In the end we decided that we would have a good breakfast the next morning and break camp. I was beginning to fear that my mosquito repellant was running low anyway (it wasn’t really. It lasted for two more camping trips).
The next morning we made up the coffee and a larger than average breakfast, and lounged in our camp until the sun was well up. Wes and I took our sweet time folding up our tents and rolling up our sleeping bags, and when we were packed and ready shouldered our packs and bid goodbye to Minaret Lake with as much melancholy as it was possible for two young men with their lives ahead of them to muster, and then we set out on the trail back to Devil’s Postpile.
My car was untouched and waiting as we trudged into the parking lot. Wes and I quickly stowed our packs in the trunk and fired that Mercury up. In very little time we were on the road, and pulled into a restaurant in Bishop ready for a real meal. I’m certain that we smelled like a garbage dump when we walked into that squat & gobble cafe but that didn’t bother us at all. If it bothered anyone else they didn’t share their displeasure with us. It was about two in the afternoon and since it was between lunch and dinner we decided to eat both. I am sure that I put five pounds of food down the hatch and Wes might have eaten more. All that remained was about nine or ten hours of driving and we would be home, clean and fed again and lying in our own comfortable beds in our own homes, with refrigerators full and the noise of the city around us, a million miles away it seemed from the pristine beauty of that jewel of the wilderness, Minaret Lake.