I have always been fascinated by stories of the fur trappers who ventured up to where the Jefferson, Madison, and Gallatin Rivers join forces to create the Missouri River. Until the discovery of South Pass, the Missouri River was the main thoroughfare to beaver country for John Colter, Jim Bridger, Jedediah Smith, and so many other mountain men. Read about any of these men and the Wind River Mountains figure prominently in their travels.
Descending Fremont Peak
I have visited the Wind River Mountains in Wyoming twice, and on each trip the prevailing winds brought smoky air from wildfires ablaze in the northwest. But even murky air cannot dull the magnificence of this range. It is a Sierra-like landscape. Glaciers have scraped the range down to its bare granite bones leaving spectacular serrated peaks and easily navigable wide open terrain. Terrific.
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This view over Island Lake looks toward Titcomb Basin. Looming on the horizon on the right is 13,751-foot Fremont Peak, first climbed by John C. Fremont on August 15, 1842. Several days later, we climbed the peak. We did not realize until months later that we were on the peak 170 years to the day after Fremont’s ascent.
If you backpack, put Titcomb Basin and the Winds on your bucket list. You will see plenty of folks on the trail, but once there, you can find solitude.
My friend, Dan, and I just returned from a trip to a region of the Sierra that he visits often but is new to me. A network of Forest Service roads honeycomb this area, a land dotted with granite domes that borders the southern boundary of Yosemite National Park. From the very end of Sky Ranch Road, we hiked across Chiquito Pass and descended the trail to the South Fork of the Merced River. From there, we left the trail and walked several miles down the river, then scrambled 1,300 feet back up to the road leading to the car.
As I grow in my photography, few things bring more pleasure than abstracting some slice of a setting that I might have once overlooked. I have other images of Young Lakes on this evening that I captured as the light sunk low and grew warm, but they are wider. It was hard to leave anything out. The entire scene was lovely; grand, softly lit granite peaks rose high above this carefully nestled lake. But this lone shaft of light cast across three sapling lodgepole pines caught my eye. In front, the cool gentle lake reflection. 
I have visited Yosemite National Park enough to convince myself that there are few surprises left there for me, at least when it comes to day hike destinations. Wrong…again.
Above Bennettville, the trail eases to an imperceptible ascent beside gentle stream linking a string of lakelets, all laid out in a nearly too-perfect Walt Disney landscape. The stream drifts easily past gardens of flowers until an assortment of granite boulders coax a momentary froth from the flow. At each lakelet, the water enjoys a moment of relaxation before moving on.
Wherever we chose to roll out our bags, each of us was enchanted with Miter Basin. The rim of the basin is surrounded by 13,000′ peaks, and each recess above holds a mountain lake with its own unique charm. Beautiful fall reds colored a ground-hugging mosaic of alpine flora. Daybreak songs of a coyote choir echoed up and down the granite walls, adding to the mystery and magic.
Our relationship with nature, even when we intentionally seek it, is usually superficial. Unless the scope is wide and the scenery grand, we tend to tune out. We demand grandeur. If we are not perched on the rim of the Grand Canyon or standing beneath the immense monolith of El Capitan, we often don’t take notice. It’s a pity, for we miss so much.
But when I open up to it, photography allows me to witness the extraordinary in places I might otherwise dismiss as ordinary. The nature of beauty I find in “ordinary” places is not vast and grand, but baby grand. The wide angle lens generally stays in the bag and is replaced by a normal or telephoto lens. Morsels of stunning beauty are often at my feet, but it doesn’t come easily to me. I have to leave the house determined to look – really look, and then see. The irony in all this is that the photographs I enjoy most are those intimate portraits of a ho-hum subject, that when abstracted from a cluttered landscape, is simply lovely.
I’m not supposed to say that. It’s not PC. “Digger” is a condescending term that was used by early Eurpoean settlers to characterize some of the Native Americans in the Great Basin and in California who dug in the soil for roots and bulbs. One of our native pines inhereted that moniker as its common name, but the modern day arbiters of politeness say no, it must be changed. So, the digger pine has become the gray pine, or the ghost pine, or the foothill pine. I like digger pine. It is a good reminder of just how mean and insensitive we can be.
I am never quite sure what the exact recipe is for a great spring wildflower display. While I enjoy botanizing in California’s Coast Range and in the Sierra, I know just enough to be dangerous. I’m likely to concoct some groundless theory and assert it as fact. But based on the significant rainfall we have had thus far, I wonder if this spring could be a memorable one.
Naturally, rain is a must, but there have been many so-so spring blooms after a wet winter; other factors certainly play a part. It makes sense that during the recent drought years viable wildflower seeds have not received enough water to sprout. Perhaps through the sparse blooms of recent springs that seeds have been accumulating waiting for a winter like we are having now. With an average amount of rainfall during the rest of the California winter, maybe we will see a spring bloom like 1997.
Do you buy it? I may be way off base, but it sounds good.