Every time I opened my eyes last night there were fewer and fewer stars. By daybreak the forest was shrouded in smoke, the nearest ridges no more than ghostly revenants of mountains.
There was nothing to do about it other than to hike of course, limiting my pace so that I wouldn’t suck too much smoke into my lungs. Even so, my eyes burned and my stomach turned.
I wrote before of the death of California, of how the state – blessed like no other place on earth- has been relentlessly plundered and pillaged. The fires are the beginning of the end game , the liquidation of forests that will never grow back in the new climate regime.
My route today hugged the divide between the Pacific and Great Basin slopes and was mostly exposed to the roaring west wind that kicked up mid morning. I often found myself bracing against the hillside with my lee hiking pole to retain my balance and stay on the trail.
I hoped that the wind would clear the smoke, but for the first few hours it seemed only to scoop it out of the valleys to dash it against the mountain wall. But it did eventually begin to clear and I was treated to some views of the Basin slope. Impaired views to be sure, but I was no longer walking through a world of gray faded ghost mountains.
Stopped to water up at the headwaters of the American River, a river that played a prime role in the ravishing of California. It was this river that washed gold nuggets down to Sutter’s ranch outside Sacramento, convincing thousands of young men that they could become wealthy without creating anything of value.
One of those young men was Malcolm Garland Price, my great great grandfather. Apparently unfulfilled by his life as a Virginia farmer, he left his wife and infant son for California and never returned. Family lore has it that he died of cholera in Sacramento (probably from drinking water from the American River) and is buried there.
What kind of man leaves his family for a fool idea like that? Perhaps I am not the right person to ask, having abandoned my own wife to tramp around in the mountains. At least Malcolm could claim that he was seeking riches that would support his wife and child. I make no such excuses.
My aunts and uncles claimed to see a resemblance. “It’s the eyes“ they said. “You both have a wild look in your eyes “.
Maybe. I could never see it, but who among us sees ourselves as we really are? I’ll post a picture of old Malcolm when I get back home, and you can be the judge.
In the meantime I will have a sip of whisky, chased by some American River branch water. Properly purified of course – one cholera victim in the family is plenty.
The lichen line of summer meets the snow line of winter
One forest fills with the ashes of another
Update: here is a picture of old Malcolm. It is undated, but he was born in 1820 and died in 1850, and so is probably in his late 20s.
And here I am at about the same age. I don’t think I look crazy at all: