For a relatively recent birthday, my life-long friend Bob Winn sent me a picture
(above) of our backpacking trip to Dusy Basin in the High Sierras around 1956,
when we were fourteen. Shown from left are Mr.
Winn, me, Bob, and Joe Green, a friend of Bob's brother Bill (far right, with strikingly
handy hatchet). Mrs. Winn (Francis) took
the picture.
Dusy Basin ranges from 10,000 to 11,000 feet in elevation. It is
far above the timberline, so the landscape is very sparse and dramatic. A hat
is required at that altitude because of UV rays. Please note that my hat is not molded into a
stylish funnel, like Bob’s, but is doofus flat to provide maximum protection
from the sun, and also to document that I didn't know how to mold a hat brim.
The trail into the basin, Bishop Pass, has an elevation
of 11,900 feet—all switchbacks, and very tiring for a punk. I had a headache for the first 72 hours.
For a few days, we fly-fished in Upper Dusy
Basin’s seven or eight lakes for rare golden trout (which breed only at 10,000
feet or higher).
Mr. Winn daily caught enough fish to feed us all by
strolling down to the boring lake next to our campsite and casting off. The results were tasty, but maddening to
those of us whose fishing expertise emphasized curiosity, flexibility, intrepidity, and most of all endurance—meaning a lot of hiking to far-off places without
a noticeable population of fish.
After a day or two, while Bob and I were out together scouring
the hinterlands for fishy pools, we decided to swim across a tarn or very small lake. Hey, fourteen years
old, what do you expect?
Since we weren’t stupid, at least theoretically, we
devised a safety plan. First, we’d test
the water temperature. I jumped in, and
with what I felt might be my last words ever, shouted to Bob that it was fine, jump on in, so he
jumped on in. This exemplifies the mental
edge that I feel I’ve maintained over him for nearly 70 years.
It may perhaps be that he jumped in first and then
sucker-talked me in. But it’s a long time ago. Why argue about it now? I’m confident that I jumped in first,
demonstrating that I was the smart one.
The second part of the plan—the nitty-gritty “safety” part—was
that he would swim halfway across, and when he reached the middle, I’d start
crossing.
. . . .7, 8, 9, 10.
Wait for it.
I have no idea why we thought that was our safety
plan. I can see pretty clearly now why I
might have thought that it was my
safety plan, but I can’t really claim credit for that.
Eventually, the Winns and Joe Green and I descended a couple of thousand feet
into LeConte Canyon on the John Muir Trail, passing through Little Pete Meadow and setting up camp at the smaller Big Pete Meadow (western humor). Or maybe we camped at Little Pete Meadow and fished up in Big Pete Meadow. You want a geography lesson, talk to somebody else.
Wherever we were, it was very, very beautiful [see websites below], and we fished for
several days (rainbow, brook, and brown trout).
Setting a lifelong trend for a week of effort in the piscatorial arts, I caught one fish, and (also normal) I caught it on the last day before heading back to civilization.
I caught my one John Muir Trail fish in a stream while Bob was off exploring for
Fishing Paradise—a lifelong quest, as it turns out. When I hooked the trout, I yanked the rod up,
and as I did so, I managed to fling the fish off of the hook and into a 12x6
foot pool behind me, maybe two feet deep at its deepest, but generally more
shallow. I quickly sealed off the pool’s
small exit channel with my knapsack, and then turned to seize the fish.
Meaning, of course, turned to begin trying to seize the fish. In
a battle of wits and skill that surely lasted at least half an hour, possibly a lot longer, I stalked
and lunged at that little shithead trout repeatedly, but every time he slipped
easily away.
Though I say “slipped easily away,” I think he was actually
working very hard to elude me. But he
had an air of aristocratic ease as he did so.
Renaissance Italians would call it sprezzatura. I called it “goddamn fucking fish.”
At last, I herded the prey into the narrow, shallowest end
of the pond, and reached down to seal its doom.
But it darted past me, and as it did so, I continued to reach for it,
thus propelling myself into a fully prone pratfall into the pond. Actually, at the time, kind of refreshing.
[Yes, relentless volunteer editors, "frontal fall" might be more accurate, but it lacks the humiliating overtones of "pratfall." And besides, I said "prone."]
But the main point is that I finally stood up with the smirking Machiavellian critter in my hands, and
threw it onto a grassy patch next to the pond. From
there, it was a relatively easy transfer into my otherwise useless creel. In this fashion, I began my soggy victorious march back to camp.
Just the thought of
the Winns’ (and Joe Green’s) amazement and, one might say, delighted appreciation when I got there in the deepening evening shadows brings
something like tears to my eyes.
Mr. Winn (with a bemused rising inflection): "Well. . . . "
Mrs. Winn (with a cheery smile and an encouraging but mainly silent giggle): "At least you caught it. Well, didn't you?"
The Winns. 60 years
ago, and I still remember so much of them and my first back-packing trip. What a
great family.
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There's a topographical map of the Dusy Basin at this
URL:
Here are some nice pictorial accounts of hike over the Bishop Pass trail into the Dusy Basin and beyond to Big and Little Pete Meadows:
http://kevingong.com/Hiking/201308NorthLakeSouthLake6.html (from Big Pete UP to Dusy Basin)
There are some spectacular images of Dusy Basin at this
website:
Don Geyer’s photos of Dusy Basin are located here:
Greg Cope’s pictures are here:
You can also see some unrelated but beautiful mountain
photographs at my brother's website,
Hey, he pays me, I keep my word.
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One last consideration: over the years, I think Bill Winn could have let me win at least one game of ping-pong. But nobody's perfect.