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THE DEATH MARCH |
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by Ray Purcell |
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I walk into the kitchen, wearing a neatly pressed blue bathrobe, which covers my starched pajamas, tops and bottoms.� With my coffee mug in one hand and the morning paper in the other I survey the scene.� The children, 18 and 19, are bright faced, cheerily attentive and smiling at the kitchen table.� My wife is standing with a department store mannequin's posture at the stove making breakfast; she's wearing high heels, nylons, a dress, and a pearl necklace.� |
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As I walk into the room all attention turns to me.� There's almost a competition over the first and best morning greeting: "hi pop!"; "Good morning daddy"; "did you sleep well dear?"�� I smile broadly and approvingly, and then I deliver the orders around which my little fiefdom will turn.� "Hey kids, this next Saturday what do say we go on a death march?"� My chorus enthusiastically responds: "Gee pop great idea!"; "I'll make a picnic lunch"; "Should I have dinner ready dear?" |
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| I'm just paranoid enough as a parent to wonder what my kids are really thinking when I approach them with one of my great ideas for an adventure.� There's a lot of uncertainty, insecurity, and free-floating anxiety that is incumbent to being a parent.� |
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| When the kids were younger I used to fret that I was an inadequate parent because I didn't take them to the park to throw the football, or encourage them into team sports like soccer and T-Ball, not-to-mention avoiding board games.� The fact of the matter is that I don't have a Little-League- parent bone in my body, I despise spectating, and I'm just too fidgety for board games.� Sitting on the sidelines of a youth soccer game, under a beach umbrella with a cooler at my side is just not my idiom. |
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| Instead, I inoculated them with backpacking, skiing, rock climbing, and rafting.� There were days when we'd come home from a trip and the first thing my son would say in his review of the day was, ?dad just took us on the trail to hell!"� Never the less, they're now adults and still willing partners in my varied adventures.� You'd think that by now I'd stop trying to second guess this; I mean how many kids this age even live at home, or are willing to share more than the most obligatory activity with their parents. |
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| By early spring, the summer had been fully laid out: in June, the day of my son's high school graduation, Sean and I would take on an attempt to summit North Palisade via the U-notch; in July my wife and I wanted to kayak around Mono Lake; and by August my daughter wanted to climb the West rib of Mt. Conness in Yosemite.� Even though the kids are physically active, I still wanted to know what kind of shape my partners were in for alpine travel; so, I suggested a day hike up Alta Peak. |
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| I didn't want to tie up their entire weekend, and I wanted some time with my wife also.� Alta Peak is a perfect compromise, and easily accessible to those of us who live in the Southern San Joaquin Valley.� At 11,200 feet, Alta Peak is a prominent feature above the Kaweah River, and sets majestically like the center stone against the crown of Great Western Divide peaks.� The trail begins at Wolverton, in Sequoia National Park; and the 6.7-mile hike to the summit is a robust alpine day hike.� |
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| We left after work on Friday evening, and stopped in Three Rivers for a really great pizza at the Pizza Factory.� It was approaching dusk as we drove through the park's entrance station at Ash Mountain.� Alta Peak was imposing, framed between Moro Rock and Castle Rock Spire, as it rose above the Kaweah River Canyon.� Still fairly well covered with snow the peak was turning the brilliant rose color of alpin glow in the setting sun. |
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We pulled into the campground at Lodgepole and got into our sleeping bags early as the temperature dropped with the coming night.� Sean wanted to play a tournament of Raven, an ancient Celtic board game.� Perhaps because I'm less distracted when we're camping, but I really enjoy nighttime games; perhaps it's something more primal.� We faced our sleeping bags toward each other with his handmade game board between us; the lantern, our clan fire, cast a soft yellow light on the ceramic game pieces.� As the moon passed overhead the legend of an Irish king was reenacted on an earthen game board; the king's army attempting to secure his escape while being hounded by the forces of the rival clan. |
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We awakened to the quickening of the morning and a predawn indigo sky.� Quickly we broke camp to escape the cold damp that had settled in the valley of the Marble Fork of the Kaweah River.� The trailhead to Alta Peak was a 10-minute drive from Lodgepole.� We drank hot chocolate and ate croissant as we watched the rising sun chase the last shadow of the night to the East; it reminded me of how last night?s army relentlessly pursued a king. |
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By 7:30 we were on the trail.� The gentle grade ascended through the thick venerable conifer forest toward Panther Gap.� Along the way we were greeted by the scents of the warming forest, and startled a grazing herd of deer.� Sean spotted a black bear cub and we wondered about the mother.� As we neared the final grade to Panther Gap, the trail became more persistently covered by snow, which was still frozen from the night and crunched beneath our feet. |
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We topped out on Panther Gap, a low pass that divides the higher drainage of Wolverton Creek from the defile of the Kaweah River 3000- feet below.� A large hawk was sunning on the apex of a near spire and had a commanding view of the gapping valley.� We caught it unaware and it effortlessly took flight on the warm rising air.� Following the Southern aspect of the ridge, our trial angled east, yielding views of The Great Western Divide and the peaks that surround Mineral King Valley. |
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Turning left at a fork in trail that divides the traverse toward The High Sierra Trail and Bear Paw Meadow, from the route to Alta Peak, we continued to ascend toward Mehrten Meadow.� Dominated by the shadow of Alta Peak, the meadow was deeply covered by snow.� It was nearing 11:00 as we rounded a shoulder of the massive crest of which Alta Peak is a high point.� |
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Facing the last leg of our journey we stood at the base of a glacier carved valley that swooped up toward the summit ridge like a lazy J that had dozed off, tilting back against the preceding letter.� We decided to eat lunch on the summit, and began to ascend the softening snowfield toward the couloir. |
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As the slope steepened the kids unlashed their ice axes and I gave them a lesson on self-arrest, and the French technique of diagonal ascent, pied a plat/piolet canne.� Ascending past 10,000-feet, the pace of the day became apparent as I could hear the deepening huff, huff, huff of my daughters breathing.� As I lessened the pitch of our traverses, and with Sean's encouraging support, our team continued steadily on. |
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We were truly covering new ground today.� I had given Sean only a very basic familiarization with snow travel once before, and Courtney had never climbed on snow.� The slope probably never exceeded 30% in the steepest part of the couloir, but perceptually it appeared steeper.� I watched vigilantly for the signs of perilous fear or exhaustion that would call for retreat, but were never apparent. |
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As we gained the summit we dropped our gear and ourselves on an appropriately flat lunch boulder.� A cold penetrating breeze blew off of mountains that were still in winter cooling us even more from the exertion of the climb.� After layering on sweaters and shells we pounced on lunch.� The quantity of food that at the trailhead looked as though it would last days was quickly gone. |
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Once sated we took in a view of the High Sierra so beautiful that it could only be described, by the most eloquent description, trivially.� The East face of the summit ridge precipitously fell away to the milky blue of the frozen Pear Lake.� The exposure was dizzying, cubic-miles of space opened between the backdrop of the High Sierra and us. |
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After summit photos we mounted up and I reiterated the ice axe arrest and how to plunge step.� As we started down there was a palpable tension.� It's one thing to have the tools but another to trust the system.� I decided to demonstrate an arrest, and jumped out into the fall line.� The snow had softened so much that I just cratered into my sitzmark and didn't budge.�� I was confronted by the teachable moment.� The fall line was consistent, clear of obstacles, and entirely visible for drop-offs; so I said, "this is how you glissade, and it'll freeze you ass's off."� |
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As I started to slide and gain speed I altered the pressure on the axe, and yelled out a loud yahoo.� In moments I had descended the couloir and stopped to wait.� Sean was quick to catch on; I could hear whoops of laughter long before the blue speck on the snow turned into a recognizable image.� As he neared I heard him yelling, "this is so fun", then peels of laughter, and "my ass is so cold".� There is nothing in this universe so beautiful as my son's face when he's delighted. |
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Courtney was next, and while she has my exuberant enthusiasm for adventure, she has her mother's penchant for caution, not a bad combination.� The first time I took her skiing as a little girl, she would be standing absolutely still and fall on her side; she'd get so frustrated.� It took awhile for the confusion to lift, but once I figured it out, I told her that before she could turn she had to be moving.� She began the glissade, and descended the slope under agonizing control, all the while laughing out "I am so cold, I am so damn cold".� When she reached the bottom I was reminded through a Cheshire Cat grin that; " I am not a snow person, I do not, do not (Emphasis on do and not) like the cold.� But that made the whole climb worth while." |
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We descended the slope, and I caught my son trying to glissade every time the pitch would allow, sometimes rowing furiously with his ice axe to gain momentum.� We began the trip back with an after glow, and I thought that the most essential part of the trip had crystallized.� I was lost in thought as we walked along, and then my son spoke out of the silence.� "You know the opposite of life isn't death, it's fear.� Death is a part of life, but fear kills life".� My heart skipped and all the scenic beauty and excitement of the day diminished before his words.� I may never have taught my son to throw a football, but would I have ever experienced this moment if I hadn't taught him to glissade? |
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May, 2002 |
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