Hail Falling on Granite

Darkening skies portended the fury to come. The beautiful white cumulus clouds that had graced our mid-day hike through Humphrey’s Basin had changed their character. No longer friendly drifting cotton balls scattered across brilliant cerulean blue skies, they had grown surly, now darker, towering, and more sinister. We quickly made camp, pitching our Omnipotent with a facing view toward the jagged western face of Mount Humphreys. As the sun bathed the summit with fading orange light, the sky turned a dark gray. We watched and waited.

Earlier, we had hiked into the basin via Piute Pass. The sun shone bright overhead, and the trail was a dusty, rocky affair that climbed steadily up, the heat of the day requiring frequent stops to pull out our water bottles and slake our thirst. The narrow path was well defined and straightforward, crossing through areas of subalpine meadows that hosted wildflowers, native grasses, and gnarly dwarf trees. The six-mile hike from the North Lake trailhead ascended 2,200 feet to Piute Pass. And once there, the view expansively blossomed to encompass a giant plain strewn with barren rocks and sparse grasses.

We hiked on. Even though we were now at 11,000 feet, the summer day was searing hot and dry. Needing to hydrate once more, we stopped to remove our packs and access our water bottles. My companion, Peter Hickner, paused, standing on the massive granite slabs to gaze across the giant boulder-strewn amphitheater over the still waters of the isolated Summit Lake, and then beyond, towards the high Sierra peaks that framed the distant skyline. He wore only a sun hat, t-shirt, shorts, socks, and leather mountain boots.

Mount Humphreys, at 13,998 feet, stood high above the other peaks, dominant with its iconic trapezoidal summit. As the 13th highest peak in California, it is the highest of those accessed from the eastern gateway town of Bishop. No other peak to the north rises higher. There is no easy route to the summit, but we had not come to climb and had not brought the gear to tackle any technical ascent. Instead, we brought pack rods, fry pan, and savory seasonings as we planned to fish from lake to lake as we meandered through the granite kingdom, happy just to be there.

And once ensconced in our tent, the view towards Mount Humphreys held us, hostage, to the unfolding drama. Soon, flashes of lightning, and sharp cracks of thunder surrounded us. And then, gently at first, the icy hail quickened to a loud and frenzied rush, the white pellets sweeping across the high Sierra landscape, pummeling our tent, and dancing across the dry basin soil. The wild beauty of the light show, the streaming hail, and the majestic Mount Humphreys seemed operatic, Wagnerian, in those moments. And though, in some ways, we did not want it to end, we knew that it would and that we’d be relieved when it was over.

And soon it was. Once done, the storm having exhausted its fury, the sky resumed its changing light as the sun drifted over the western peaks sending dramatic flares of light before the approaching dark of night. As the temperature had plummeted, we emerged from our tent, more fully clothed, to survey the scene. We both admired what the storm had left behind, the moist landscape of granite boulders, scrubby trees, and scattered white hail pellets. As quickly as the storm had manifested itself, it released its fury and quickly moved on. It was so different from the incessant and lingering cold wetness we were so accustomed to with mountain storms in the Pacific Northwest. And for that difference alone, we were glad that we had come.

I had fallen in love with the Kings Canyon area of the Sierra many years before, when a girlfriend and I first explored the Mount Goddard quad. At first, we followed the dusty trails, and then later broke away. We’d travel off-trail following the contours of our topo maps, hiking up the drainages of streambeds and cascading waterfalls to fish remote and seldom visited lakes with scattered boulder shoulders. If you wanted to simply wander and discover, this was a good place. More than good. Sensational.

As Peter and I traveled the basin we were surprised to discover some shallow tarns alive with vigorously wriggling dark shapes, tadpoles. Surprisingly large, we wondered why they were there. Only later would I learn that the mountain yellow-legged frog (Rana muscosa) was once a common inhabitant of the California Sierra Nevada. They later declined precipitously during the past century due in part to the introduction of nonnative fish, brook trout, into naturally fishless habitats. However, on that day, during our traverse of the basin, both tadpoles and brook trout co-existed.

As I look back, I acknowledge that those early days of our exploration of the Sierra revealed to me, much more emphatically than I could ever have imagined, the ethereal magic of nature. My experience was profound and the beginning of my deep spiritual communion with the wild places of the mountains. And for that, I would be forever grateful.

More stories of my early explorations of the Sierra, Cascades, Tetons, and Wind River Range are included in my recently released memoir, Banquet of the Infinite, which is now available as an eBook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo.