I have become quite adept over the years at
making good campfires. I am not talking
about the big, blazing “white man” fires one often sees in campgrounds, but the
quiet little fire that flares and flits around two, maybe three logs....large
enough to warm the hands but not so large as to drive one away with smoke and
heat. I have started fires under some of
the most extreme conditions in past times.
There was the little fire I got going when Phil and I holed up in a cave
at Canyonlands during a snow flurry. No
paper and not much wood. Just a bit of
juniper bark and some twigs, but that was enough. Then there was the time in Little Spring
Canyon when Cindy and I got caught in a major rain storm
and had visions of being flash-flooded down into the Colorado River. But I led us to a large alcove that I had
remembered and we found enough downed wood to get a fire going and make a sweet
little campsite. And the canyon never
did flood.
So I’ve got one such fire going right now in
the metal fire ring at the Pinnacles camp site I am currently occupying. The sun finally shone brightly today as I
drove north from Paso Robles, stopping in King City long enough to pick up a
few supplies. After that it was back to
that oh-so-familiar road that climbs gently into the Gabilan Range, winding
first through fertile farms on the edge of the Salinas Valley, then climbing up
into hills thickly clad in chaparral and open pastures dotted with oaks, gray
pines, and cattle. I have a familiarity
with this area going back more than fifty years now, and I lived in these
mountains for four of those years as a park ranger. When I stepped out of the van at one point to
snap a photo or two, the air was redolent of memories and an internal kinship
that is hard to explain.
In spite of the Sunday crowds trying to get
into the park today, I found my campsite and unloaded as much stuff as I
could. And then I took a solitary hike
along the south fork of Chalone Creek, through dazzling green grass and immense
valley oaks all twisted and gnarled and leaning over like old men. Quail darted out of the underbrush, and I
scared up some rabbits. Dotting the
sparse ground cover here and there were bright orange poppies and johnny jump
ups. And to my left, the braided,
shallow stream of the Chalone. It was a
perfect way to ease back into the Pinnacles experience.
It is wonderful to see the familiar brilliant
hues that bedeck this landscape.
Luminescent green moss. Pink
rhyolite with bright orange lichens. No
wonder this was the spot where, as young friends we dropped acid, took
psilocybin and smoked lots of dope back in the day. Those highs have lasted me for decades. Later when I trekked through the Bear Gulch
Caves, I had more energy than I have felt in a long time. The caves were full of deafening cascades and
running water underfoot. It was a real
challenge getting through them for this old man. But the pay off was being able to stroll back
down along the Moses Spring Trail past bunches of shooting stars, and damp
hollows filled with chain ferns. All in
all, I put in over four miles of walking.
So now my fire is nothing but glowing embers
and, if I have done if all right, there will be nothing but a pile of gray
ashes by morning.
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