280 Boots $ 14,000 Feet - Brief Article

FIFTY YEARS AGO, DAVID BROWER, HIS TWO YOUNG SONS, AND ABOUT 140 CLOSE FRIENDS SET OUT TO WANDER AMONG SOME OF THE HIGHEST PEAKS IN THE SIERRA NEVADA.

WE RENDEZVOUSED BY THE STREAM AT DUSK. Below us lay California's Owens Valley, its few lights glowing in the soft July evening like a scattering of hot coals. Above us towered the peaks of the Sierra Nevada, reaching for the stars.

We had gathered at the end of the road--140'men, women, and children--because we shared two happy convictions: first, the belief that our own two feet, unsupported by horse, car, or plane, could carry us over 14,000-foot mountains, through flower-choked meadows, and across snow-chilled streams. Second, a common faith that the rewards of great vistas, bright trails, and good companionship in the High Sierra would long outlive memories of a blistered heel, a twanging tendon.

We were, in short, members of California's 62-year-old Sierra Club, grouping for our organization's 48th High Trip along this massive range. For two weeks we planned to hike, climb, and camp in a wilderness still unscarred by roads, unruffled by the auto's honk.

Many of us were "repeaters." I had met the Sierra first at the age of six, introduced by parents who wanted my earliest recollections to include sleeping under the stars and watching the moon rise over gray-black peaks. Now I in turn was bringing my sons--Ken, who was nearly nine, and Bob, who was seven--back to the "Range of Light."

First task that engaged us all at our road-head base on Carroll Creek near Mt. Whitney was weighing in. Mules would pack our dunnage from this jump-off point to the various camps we would pitch along our route. But the load limit was 30 pounds apiece. We watched as a latecomer, Don Davis, proprietor of a one-man band, tossed his duffel on the scales and sadly read the result. "Two pounds over! And I've already taken out everything but essentials. Do you think the packers will notice?" An old-timer from the group nearby snorted. "They'll notice! And they may leave your overweight lying in the trail."

Don sighed and began to sort his belongings again. What could he do without?

He wouldn't need food or cooking utensils; the Club's commissary supplied that. Sleeping bag? Absolutely essential. Change of clothes? Well, a lad had better have something to wear when trying to persuade a comely lass to help him with his laundry. Camera? Pictures of this handsome country would be well worth the sacrifice of other gear. Swimsuit, fly rod, guitar? A man must have his pleasures. Air mattress? And his comfort.

Razor? There was something to leave in the car. One pound 12 ounces still to be eliminated. Tent? "It never rains at night in the Sierra," someone volunteered. "Why not just take a light tarp for a ground sheet and pitch it as a roof if it does rain?" Don made the switch, repacked his dunnage bag, and weighed it again. "Thirty pounds on the nose!" he exclaimed triumphantly--and sat down on his bag to advise those next in line.

FACES RADIANT BUT STILL CITY-PALE RINGED OUR FIRST CAMPFIRE THAT evening. Pine smoke rose toward the mountain sky, then blew fitfully downstream. A few newcomers, their lungs not yet hardened to wood smoke and their eyes smarting, scurried out of its path. The smoke, of course, followed them.

In the circle stood Dr. Pat Goldsworthy, one of the trip leaders, a biochemist at the University of Washington. "Welcome to the 48th Sierra Club High Trip," said Pat. "Most of you know why we're here, but it stands repeating. We're here to enjoy an experience of traveling through a mountain wilderness we've waited at least 50 weeks to see. This is a trip that belongs to all of us, through country that belongs to all of us.

"We'll share the fun of this trip," he went on. "More important, we'll share the mountains. Not just with ourselves, but with others who are coming later this summer, and for many summers to come. It's always been the Club's pride to leave the mountains as clean as we find them, or cleaner. We like the Indian's motto: `Where I go, I leave no sign.'

"Finally, we want to remember why these trips were started in the first place by John Muir and Will Colby, back in 1901. It was to encourage people to learn about mountain country, show them how to use it without abusing it, and get their help in conserving it for our children and our children's children."

Pat paused a moment, "Tomorrow morning the first call will be at 4:30."

Groans and cheers--the cheers from old-timers who knew that early starts paid off. The sooner we began the long climb up to our two-mile-high camp in Inyo National Forest, the more ground we could cover before the sun grew uncomfortably warm.

WE WERE JOLTED FROM OUR SLEEPING BAGS NEXT MORNING BY A hideous chorus of wolf calls and would-be yodels: the commissary crew's. They had been up more than an hour preparing breakfast, and now they apparently wanted us to share their misery.

In the Sierra's chill morning air we packed our dunnage, weighed it in again, and gathered in quiet groups around the 20-gallon coffeepot. Slowly the black metallic brew brought us to life. It was light enough to travel now, and in the distance the high places beckoned.