A Journey of Mammoth Proportions, Part 1

The completion of a major design review, a mid-week 4th of July holiday, and the slow transition and ramp-up onto a new project at work afforded me a rare opportunity: a week and a half of vacation!!! It couldn't have happened at a more needed time. I’d been working 50+ hour weeks for what seemed like months. Long hours, major deadlines, lots of stress to get everything done. Poor Stacy caught the brunt of deal; I would leave the house before the kids were up and be home after they were asleep, so she was foisted with 100% of kid duties. To make matters worse, late June through early July is our family’s birthday run – first N, then L, then Stacy, all in two weeks, so the weekends were full of party prep and other such obligations, cutting in to what little down time was available. Again, Stacy’s birthday was the one to take the hit as I had little time or energy to plan anything special for her. It wasn't until two weeks ago , a few days after her birthday, when I finally realized my work onslaught was going to let up that I sheepishly approached her and asked if, for her birthday last week, she wanted to go up to the mountains for a few days of get-away. She seemed willing to let bygones be bygones and snapped up the offer.

With less than a week of advance time, I was still able to make reservations for two nights, a Wednesday and Thursday, in the cabins at Convict Lake up near Mammoth Lakes. We wanted to spend three nights, but they only had openings for two, so we came up with a fall-back plan that turned out to be ideal – we would camp out up in Mammoth for the night on Monday before checking in at our cabin on Tuesday. We ended up liking that arrangement a lot, as it allowed me to sate my camping pangs, while assuring Stacy of showers for herself and the kids in the foreseeable future. I think we will be following this general plan in the future. Stacy will put up with just about anything for a while if there’s running water in sight at the end.

On telling the kids, who love camping, they immediately flew into an ecstasy and started bundling up each and every possession for the trip. The entire week leading up to departure I heard non-stop pleas to get their camping packs out of the garage so they could load up. Eventually the time was ripe to do so, and an amazing percentage of our household goods and personal items found their way into the kids duffel bags. When we camp I’m never afraid of people breaking into our house while we’re away and stealing our valuables. To do that, they’d have to break into our trunk.

Stacy and I love the drive up to the Eastern Sierras. It is allegorical. You start out in the bleakness and misery of Lancaster and the Mojave Desert, then hit the first leg of brittle, arid mountains that get bigger and greener and grander as you go along. Lone Pine and Independence and Big Pine offer ever improving scenery and a commensurate lift in spirits. (And convenient potty breaks!) Finally you pass Bishop and begin the long, smooth climb out of the Owens River valley and into the mountains themselves and you feel the air thinning to relieve the pressure on your soul. Trees and peaks and granite outcroppings greet you and whisper that they are foretastes of glory divine. I don’t know about you, but when I get to Heaven, I’m hoping to stay in the Alpine section.

Lovely Palmdale, the threshold of our adventure.
There but for the grace...

Flat N joined us on our trip.

Ice cream in Independence!

Schat's cookies in Bishop!

We camped our first night in Mammoth Lakes. We didn't have a site reserved, but being mid-week we had no trouble picking up a first-come, first-serve spot. In addition to unloading our house into our tent, the evening was spent roasting hot dogs and marshmallows. Stacy, gratefully, I’m sure, was able to acquire that wood-smoke-in-the-hair perfume that she can never get washed out for at least two weeks after.

OK, I photoshopped the carving,
but I could've done it if I wanted...

On Wednesday morning, after tea and hot chocolate, Stacy and I stowed the house back in the car while the kids built luxury condos out of pine needles for the local chipmunk population. After building each fluffed up nest, L assured me that a family of chipmunks was guaranteed to rush in, such fine and affordable housing being somewhat rare in this forest, evidently.

Eager recipient of subsidized housing.

The perfect starter-home!

Rates may never be this low again!

Once we were all loaded and the homeless population of the Mammoth woods had been adequately provided for, we drove up to the resort areas in Mammoth Lakes which had a shuttle to take you down the mountain to the San Joaquin river and the trail to Devil’s Postpile National Monument.

In the years we've been coming to the Eastern Sierras we’d always known the Postpile was there, but we’d never taken the time to see it. This time we dedicated the bulk of the day to exploring the site and the trails around the monument and the San Joaquin. We parked at the resort and got our shuttle passes and waited our turn to plunge down the mountain. When our bus arrived, N and Stacy managed to get a pair of seats fairly mid-bus. Right away, however, L spotted two vacant seats way back on the very last row, which, since it is perched over the engine block, is a foot or two higher up than the other seats. Always wanting a higher perch, L dragged me back to the abyss. I imagine the ride down the mountain is harrowing enough when you’re at the wheel in some semblance of control of your destiny. When you’re crammed in the very last row of a very crowded shuttle bus, over a rather warm engine block, and your elevated seat effectively precludes you from seeing anything out the windows except for a direct view down to the road racing past under you, and every twist and turn afflicting the passengers in general is amplified as the tail of the bus whips around, it adds “nauseating” to the whole “harrowing” ambiance. N and Stacy were all smiles and excitement when they de-bused. L and I were slightly green. The Devil’s Postpile itself is a short hike from the shuttle stop of the same name, and given the twenty minutes of blind tossing about in what felt like a front-loading washing machine, a hike, in open air and full visibility of one’s surroundings, was very, very welcome.

The trail wound a half mile or less though a valley around meadows and groves overlooking the San Joaquin river and the glorious alpine mountain rising up on the other side. We were at the Postpile before we knew it.

The basalt looks like baleen to me.

N assured me it was already broken when he got there.

The first thing I thought when I saw the Devil’s Postpile was that, big and impressive though it was, it wasn't as big and impressive as I’d expected. But I was, after all, still a little sea-sick, jaded and grumpy, and prone to bouts of unappreciativity. But it seems I wasn't the only one. N began manifesting some of the early warning signs of the stress and strain of being over-sugared and under-rested, which certainly had been his operating mode for most of the summer, and double on the trip thus far. We tried to decide by family consensus what to do next, but whatever was suggested, N wouldn't have it, and crossed his arms, pouting and symbolically stomping his foot for effect. (I don’t know if he really did that, but it makes for a nice visual to set the tone, so I’ll tell the story as though he did.) Such an endearing attitude won him few friends in the negotiations, and quickly a voting block of everyone but N was formed with the sole unifying theme of wanting to do exclusively those things that N didn't. We took bitter pleasure in watching him stomp more and more aggressively. Yes, maturity is highly valued and scrupulously modeled in our household.

We decided, to N’s vehement protests, to take a hike over the bridge on the San Joaquin, and up to the Pacific Crest and John Muir trails to Minaret Falls, a gentle cascade a “short” way away. N took a brief hiatus from his whining as soon as we crossed the bridge because we came to Soda Springs, a mud flat alongside the river that bubbled and oozed carbon dioxide from the pools. Magically revived, N joined L in tasting the literally carbonated water and frolicking around on the river rocks and the adjoining meadow.

But as soon as we resumed the trail to the falls Mr. Sourpants returned to spread his version of cheer and goodwill abroad.  But in N’s defense, it did end up being a significantly longer hike than we anticipated. (3.2 miles!) If it weren't for the occasional dramatic log-bridge over a trickling spring, or an eagle’s nest stuffed atop some decapitated fir tree, N’s melt down, and his subsequent demise at our hands, would have been inevitable. I can now also, in the comfort of my home, with my ego safely immune from challenge, admit that N’s grumbling and procrastination on the trail, and all the stopping and prodding and coaxing, was a great mask covering the fact that the mild incline of the hike and the overall mountain elevation was kicking my own patootie, and if I did not stop more often than really needed to reprimand N, I would likely have collapsed myself in a sweaty, wheezing, heart-palpitating heap.

"Aerie she blows!"

"Come on, N!"

"I said, come on, N!"

"<Sigh!>"

We eventually reached the falls after many hesitations and near turn-backs, the last tenth of a mile or so with N on my shoulders. Or rather, we reached the stream that ran out from the base of the falls. The falls themselves were accessible via a little scramble up the hillside -- an exertion none of us wanted to make, and one we could easily blame N for not taking. And we had a partial view from the trail that was perfectly adequate, thank you very much. Fearing we’d hit the half-way level in the kids' energy a long time before hitting this, our half-way point in our hike, and prepping for a return trip of complaining worthy of a national monument, we rounded the kids up for our regress. That’s when something weird happened. Something changed. All of a sudden N woke up from his funk and was all smiles and giggles and good cheer. It was like the Devil that had been hitching a ride with him decided he liked his Postpile better, and came out of him. From that point on he and L were having races down the trail, running and laughing and getting way on out of sight ahead of us, leaving Stacy and I to change our preoccupation of how we were going to murder our children, to worrying about how the hidden wildcat or enraged she-bear would do it for us. By the time we caught up with them at the river bridge I was faint and dehydrated and it was all L and N could do to get me to stop my incessant complaining and follow the group back to the bus stop.

Who is this chipper fellow, and what did you do with N?

A much-deserve rest back at the bus-stop.

N calls no one in particular on a pay phone.

The happy bus ride back.