Race Day

May 1966, Champaign-Urbana, University of Illinois, Forbes Hall, room 306. That spring of my freshman year, two friends and I gathered to form a plan. It didn’t take long. We impulsively left campus that Sunday afternoon and drove toward Indianapolis. Our ride: My friend’s '60s something 4-door Mercury sedan. Our destination: The Indianapolis Motor Speedway Why? To attend the Golden Anniversary Race of the Indy 500, the 50^th running of the race, and the 150^th anniversary of Indiana statehood. We planned to arrive in time for pre-race festivities, party, spend the night, and watch the race the next day.

Like most kids in the ‘50s and'60s, my brother and I were obsessed with cars. While too young to drive, we built Soap Box Derby racers and even had a modest go-kart that we’d race around parking lots until someone called the cops, who chased us off. I remember disassembling the modest Clinton engine in our garage and porting and polishing both intake and exhaust with my Dremel MotoTool. Of course, it increased the horsepower, and the aftermarket aluminum exhaust header made it insanely loud. No wonder we got chased off, everywhere we went. And, as we passed the days with our childhood toys, we yearned to drive the real thing.

When we visited the Chevy dealer to get our Soap Box Derby regulation wheels and axles, we’d often pause to admire the new Corvette. Back then, cars were a celebration of design, full of voluptuous curves, abundant chrome, and outrageous tailfins. Buicks even featured non-functional ‘ventiports’ on the front quarter panels, the number of which would signify the size of the engine. Four ports on a quarter panel signified a mighty V-8 under the hood.  And on top of the various physical design elements, automotive paints were many and varied, from bright colors to seductive pastels. And, many cars with two-tone paint jobs still cruised the roads. White, black, and gray were not yet the most popular car colors. Auto enthusiasts looked eagerly forward to each new model year and many of our neighbors would routinely trade in their old models for the latest sheet metal from Detroit. One family we knew from the Soap Box Derby, bought a new Chevy every year. Our family did not. After all, dad had a black 1957 Jaguar 3.4-liter sedan with red leather seats. Pretty classy. Of course, I lusted after the XKE.

We hadn’t planned well. We just took off. As we approached the enormous Indianapolis Motor Speedway traffic jammed up and we crept toward the tunnel entrance that would take us to the infield. We bought our tickets and entered. Our seats would be in the unreserved bleachers on the backstretch. We figured that would be good enough for us.

The infield area was already filling up with cars and we navigated through the crowds and parked campers to an open spot and pulled in. We had arrived. The field was full of enthusiasts already in full party mode, grilling burgers, hotdogs, and chicken and drinking beer, lots of beer. As the day turned into night, the party kept on going and pyramids of empty beer cans towered high. We finally headed back to the car and turned in. Yes, we slept in the car with only our jackets for warmth. The truth is that we didn’t sleep well at all.

Dawn arrived and somehow, we sallied forth on a new day, race day. We made a beeline to Gasoline Alley to see the cars. Back then we could get very close to the race cars and the mechanics that hovered over them. There was only a close-in chain-link fence that separated us from the activity. We found it thrilling to be in such proximity to the pampered machines and examined the sleek contenders for some time. After more wandering around the gigantic speedway, we headed over to our bleacher seats on the backstretch and waited. The day was way bright and hot. We baked in the sun as we waited. The distant sound of engines crackled through the air. Soon the pace car would lead the starting grid through the pace lap and the race would begin.

We stood transfixed as the parade of cars rounded the backstretch curve and headed past us, stately, waiting for the pace car to exit in front of the grandstands and for the race to commence. As they disappeared, we eagerly waited for the full-on racing. We soon heard a deafening roar that meant they were off and running, soon to come racing by us. But that didn’t happen. The roar was inexplicably brief and then there was silence. No cars rounded the curve coming toward us. There was absolutely nothing. A complete void of activity.

We impatiently waited, baking in the relentless Indiana sun, wondering what was going on. Incredibly, there was no announcement. And it took quite a while for the word to finally filter back through the crowd to the unfortunates sitting on the hard wooden backstretch bleachers. We would eventually learn of a huge sixteen-car pileup and that eleven of the 33 starters, all damaged beyond repair, were eliminated in that horrendous first-lap accident soon after receiving the green flag on the main stretch. 

After the crash, a red flag came out as damaged cars were removed from the track. When the debris was cleaned up, the remaining cars were again lined up, and the race restarted after a delay of an hour and 24 minutes. When the race finally resumed, we were famished and grateful to our neighbors who shared some of the fried chicken they brought from home. Although exhausted, we had come this far and we were not leaving now. So, we settled in and watched the cars race to the end.

The famous world champion English racer Jim Clark had won in 1965 and was in the field, racing his Lotus again. I was an ardent fan of his accomplishments in Formula One racing and had come to see him drive and achieve a second victory. His 1965 accomplishment was groundbreaking as he was the first to achieve a win with a mid-engine car. He drove a Colin Chapman Lotus powered by a Cosworth Ford engine. 1964 was the first year of the ‘English Invasion’ with the Beatles topping the music charts. And a year later in 1965, another ‘English Invasion’ happened at Indy. It marked the end of the era of front-engine cars that had existed since the beginning of the race in 1911 when Ray Harroun won in his Marmon. 

While the English drivers were all well experienced with the twisty European Formula One circuits, the victory really had more to do with the cars than the drivers. Their automotive engineering was superior. The lower polar moment of inertia achieved in the mid-engine design allowed the vehicle to maintain stability at higher speeds through the turns. Their exemplary performance was achieved through adherence to the laws of physics. And once that was conclusively demonstrated, the mid-engine configuration was widely adopted and thus began a new era for Indy cars.

Fortunately, only A.J. Foyt, the winner in 1964, was injured as he hurt his hand trying to scale the fence to escape the scene of the spectacular sixteen-car wreck. Eventually, Scottish Jackie Stewart, the 'Flying Scot,' would lead the race late in the day and was a full lap ahead when his oil pump failed with only ten laps to go. Fellow rookie, Englishman Graham Hill then took the lead and finished first in his mid-engine Lola/Ford. Jim Clark spun twice that day and finished second. Curiously, only seven cars finished, the fewest ever in the history of the race.

By the end of the long day, only made longer by the interminable delays, we were ready to leave and joined the slow parade of vehicles that departed the infield. The party was finally over, and we were completely bushed. As we left, I sat in the back seat of the Mercury and wondered if I would ever return to the Indianapolis 500. And as it turned out, I did not.

Stone Gardens and Golden Trout

Driving up Highway 168 from the arid little town, our view expanded. A colossal range of high peaks arrayed dramatically before us. The air seemed thinner and more ethereal. There was something to that because Bishop, residing near the northern end of the Owens Valley, is sited at 4,150 feet, and we were continually gaining elevation. Our destination, some twenty miles west, further up the narrow two-lane road, ended with a small pullout and a place to park. We paused at the trailhead and reflected that we had driven some 1,300 miles from Seattle. The next leg would be on foot. We unloaded and sorted our gear on the ground next to the car, both wondering what lay ahead.

Fortunately, we weren’t starting in a storm. That thought was a remnant of Pacific Northwest thinking. 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 surrounding peaks appeared timeless and fractured, their cracked flanks displaying the prominent rubble of their massive talus slopes.

We noticed the dry fragrances of the Sierra, an intoxicating sensory perception of pine needles, tree barks, and hints of wildflowers. The waters of Lower Lamarck Lake shimmered in the sunlight, sparkling brilliantly. Even in the hard light of the Sierra, the azure blue waters and the structure of the surrounding landscape reverberated with a bright intensity painted in visually arresting saturated colors. Significantly different from the light in the Pacific Northwest. We stopped at Upper Lamarck Lake to refill our water bottles. Pushing on, Mt. Lamarck watched over us.

Approaching Lamarck Col, a rocky pass from which we would descend towards our yet-to-be-determined camp, we looked back at the Lamarck Lakes and the tiny trail behind us. A mere thread of dirt. Our goal for the day: to climb steadily upward to the rugged rocky col, at 12,880 feet, and then drop down into Darwin Canyon, hike along the canyon lakes and search out a suitable camp for our first night.

The trail up to the col was steep and rocky, and the sun relentless, but coming from the Pacific Northwest, we didn’t mind. We encountered what seemed to be a permanent snowfield up near the col and, after kicking small steps, gingerly traversed it, and soon gained the col. We paused to break out our water bottles and take in the view. Across the canyon, Mount Darwin and Mount Mendel dominated the skyline, massive gray forms with sharp spines, aprons of snow, and fields of talus and scree at the runouts.

The scale of the landscape was vast and desolate, hard and unwelcoming. We descended, picking our way slowly through the jumble of rocks on a faint and seldom traveled trail. A chain of five small lakes, arguably tarns, all at about 11,600 feet above sea level, was visible at the bottom of the canyon. They led to the canyon exit and out to another small tarn at the Darwin Bench. Our first camp.

The smaller more intimate landscapes by the lakes hosted rough grassy meadows that were quite welcoming. Pitching my newly acquired Omnipotent #13 on a lakeside spot, we cooked our modest dinner and watched the sunset. The days were long, and we’d used most of today's, so we were tired and happy to turn in. After a few words about what might lay ahead tomorrow, we fell into an exhausted slumber.

A new morning dawned bright with the promise of wild places to come. After a quick breakfast, we packed up our gear, shouldered our backpacks, and hiked cross-country to connect with the John Muir Trail. We hiked south down the JMT through the Evolution Basin, passing the sparkling waters of Evolution Lake, and Sapphire Lake, and arrived at Wanda Lake. One of the larger lakes in the basin, flanked by rugged granite peaks, Mt. Huxley, Mt. Warlow, Mt. Goddard, and Mt. McGee, we found it stunning and welcoming. The friendly lake became our base camp.  We pitched our tent.

We hiked up to Muir Pass, to the iconic rough stone Muir Hut, sited at 11,955 feet. Constructed in 1931, it resembled a medieval granite beehive with its vertical octagonal walls and cone-shaped rough stone roof. The design of the monument, inspired by the vernacular 18th-century Trullo Huts of southern Italy, looked perfect in its environment, amongst the granite boulder field on the knoll of its construction. The heavy, weathered wood door seemed out of an ancient legend. I grasped the heavy hand-forged steel handle and pressed the thumb latch. We entered.

The room was dark and empty save for a rustic timber table and a large, soot-darkened, stone fireplace that dominated one wall. While cool inside, there was little more to see. Recessed, in an outside wall, a cast brass commemoration plaque told a brief story of the John Muir Memorial Shelter. Built in 1931 by the Sierra Club and the U.S. Forest Service, the brass plaque dedicated the stone hut to John Muir, ‘Lover of the Range of Light.’ We paused to envision the construction. We were alone, and in the calm of the day, took our time, thoughtfully running our fingers over the surfaces of the stone hut as if paying homage to a sacred place. The silence was absolute.

We explored several more sapphire blue High Sierra lakes, often clustered together in small groups and always beneath rugged towering mountains. We scrambled up the blocky flanks of many of them until we felt the limits of our skills and rested, gazing out over the immensity of surrounding basins and high granite peaks. Alone for most of our journey, we saw only one other group of backpackers. We encountered them at one lake as they passed through. Three, young as ourselves, hiking by day, camping, and fishing for trout.

Lara and I fell in love with the Sierra, destined to return to this same area two years later. We increased the range of our explorations. 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 boulder-strewn shoulders. If you wanted to simply wander and discover, this was a good place. More than good. Sensational.

We hiked along a meadow stream set high amongst the magnificent stone gardens of the Sierra. Meandering through the meadow, framed by shaggy, wild grass banks, the water was clear and clean, gurgling over small polished stones of many colors. I saw movement as dark shapes darted under cover of the banks.

Guddling for trout was new to me, but today I would try. Easing into the knee-high sparkling waters of the frigid stream, I moved slowly towards the undercut banks. I bent low to ease my arms deep under the edge, carefully searching with curious hands. I felt a slim undulating object. Cupping my hands gently under and around the reluctant trout, I eased it out and up to the surface, barely above the water, to marvel at its bright and shining sides, a truly dazzling creature.

A diminutive member of the trout family, the California golden trout are a native fish distinguished by their dark green backs, saturated golden flanks, and bellies punctuated by bright orangish-red stripes along their sides. Visually they are simply pure magic, intoxicating to behold. I held the small trout briefly, reverently, as it took my breath away and then carefully lowered it back into its waters. I practiced guddling a few more times as we hiked along the stream that day, amazed at each unique brightly colored trout. I could not have imagined anything more beautiful.

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.

This is an excerpt from ‘Stone Gardens and Golden Trout,’ an adventure story from my mountain memoir, Banquet of the Infinite, which is available as an eBook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo.

 

The Winter Route

While there are several ways to the top, most of us focus on two, ‘The Winter Route’ and ‘The Summer Route.’ Of course, there are variations of each, but the main thrust is that once the snow has consolidated, sometime in the late spring, and the avalanche chutes no longer pose life-threatening danger, we have a window in time when we can ascend the ridgeline to the lookout on snow, ‘The Winter Route.’ And that’s fun. Big fun, if you like toting an ice axe and kicking steps, with or without spikes, depending.

Yes, I’m talking about the hike up to the Granite Mountain Lookout. It’s an all-season hike, except when the snow makes for prime avalanche conditions. Even with the snow at the higher elevations, it’s beautiful in the spring and summer, festooned with blooming bear grass and other wildflowers on the approach. And in the fall, the abundant mountain ash and huckleberries provide truly spectacular colors. Unfortunately, no subalpine larches are turning brilliant gold in late September / early October but the alpine meadows are rich with stunning hues of reds, oranges, and golden ochres in the late season.

The last time I ascended the ridge crest was on the 3rd of June, 2020, hiking solo. Starting at 7:30 am, the crisp morning chilled me. But soon after the first mile, I peeled off a layer since I always find it impossible not to work up a sweat in the forested section after the Pratt Lake Trail junction. It’s where the trail quickly steepens, rapidly gaining elevation over ever more boulder-strewn terrain. The trail was in good shape with negligible mud. After emerging from the verdant forest, the beautiful day featured mostly blue skies, with only the wispiest of drifting clouds, all the way from the upper meadows to the historic fire lookout.

I encountered snowfields at 4,700 feet around 9:30 am, and the last 1,000 vertical feet were entirely on snow. The snow was soft enough that microspikes were not required (I had them in my pack just in case). My poles were useful for stability on the less steep slopes but I switched to my ice axe for the ascent of the steep ridgeline and was happy with that decision. I was also wearing stiff-soled mountaineering boots which were very helpful in kicking steps on the way up and plunge stepping on the way down. Mountain boots and an ice axe provided me with a sense of confidence and security.

While there was a path in the snow, it was days old and I kicked my steps. The upper ridge featured a prominent cornice on the upper section before the lookout. I took note and avoided venturing too close to the edge. As snowmelt had begun, there was a cleft between the upper snow slopes and the granite boulders in several places along the upper ridgeline. They were sharply undercut and required cautious attention so as not to punch through to the granite boulders below.

There would be more melting in the days ahead and while I could ascend the entire ridgeline to the lookout on snow today, that would soon become impossible as the snow melted out. The ridgeline route would then become a combination of rock scrambling and snow travel. And that combination would be far less fun. I knew because I had done it in years past.

That day in early June was simply pure magic! And even though we were amid a pandemic, I hiked early and only encountered 3 people descending as I ascended and I had the lookout all to myself for a leisurely snack before heading down. As I descended, I soon passed others on their way to the top. All were smiling. It’s that kind of place.

Once the snow has departed, it’s much easier to access the lookout by traversing a high meadow below the summit ridge and ascending a rocky trail from the north. The last switchbacks up the rocky path are steep, and it’s always a relief when the lookout comes into sight. The cabin is rarely open, and I have only been in it once during maintenance work by the rangers. Open or not, it is an amazing piece of history and a wonderful place to sit and snack and enjoy the views.

For panoramic views without the snow, I invite you to look at my spherical panoramas. I have taken seven at the historic Granite Mountain fire lookout. All have vistas of the nearby peaks. The links below feature two examples that can be viewed at 360cities.net. Others may be accessed by scrolling below each image and clicking on the ‘Nearby’ tab. Be sure to click the full-screen icon as you roll over the upper right of the photo for best viewing. 

Granite Mountain Fire Lookout Cabin: https://www.360cities.net/image/granite-mountain-fire-lookout-cabin-alpine-lakes-wilderness-washington-state

Granite Mountain Cirrus Clouds: https://www.360cities.net/image/granite-mountain-cirrus-clouds-alpine-lakes-wilderness-washington-state