At least I think they are called the Scott Mountains. There are a lot of different mountain ranges all jumbled together here in no particular form or order.
I believe this is what John McPhee referred to as “suspect terrane”, the result of tectonic plates ferrying bits and pieces of continents over and slamming them into the coast*.
For such chaotic terrain, the trail is surprisingly calm and orderly. It mostly contours around the sides of the ridges, neither climbing nor descending much as the miles roll by.
A side trail to a lake appears, just 0.2 miles of detour. I am determined never to hurry on this hike and so I make the short steep climb, strip to my boxers and dive in.
Porcupine Lake is down a good 10 feet but is still cool and clear and makes for a delightful swim. I sit for a while drying off, see no sign of fish, and move on.
Deadman Lake appears a few miles further on. It is just a few miles from a trailhead and is ringed with the tents of weekend backpackers.
The weather has turned cloudy and cool as I take a break and light drizzles come and go. This lake also appears bereft of fish.
A helicopter appears, stops and then dips its bucket into the lake. It flies up the ridge to the south, stops, hovers, and releases its load.
I can see no smoke, but the copter repeats this routine three times before flying off. Was there a fire? Hard to believe that firefighters would be practicing their water drops on a target — there are plenty of real fires to practice on.
I start walking and the rain begins in earnest. “Rain is good” I think, but the rain is accompanied by thunder and thus by lightning. It is raining pretty hard up here on the crest, but lower elevations might be getting less of a soaking and just as much fire from the sky.
A couple of guys zip past me carrying really tiny packs- no more than 9 or 10 pounds. We meet up again at the next water source, which is swampy and slow, and they confess that they have no rain gear and are getting soaked.
There are good campsites on the butte above Butte Lake, so I pitch my tent as the thunder rumbles away, cool my dinner, play a tune or two on my uke and lay down to sleep.
*Wrong. “Assembling California” is the book I was thinking of.