Scrambling on the Sherwins: A Bionic Draft Horse, Pika, and (partly) Mountain Goat Adventure Bedtime Story.

Spring had sprung its trap, luring, with seeping snow ceding to greening grasses, a trio of intrepid trekkers to lope along a Lofty Ridge to the Pointed Pyramid Peak. Who were these three intrepid trekkers? You may remember sprightly and springy Mountain Goat, who loved to bounce and bound about. She was joined by her customary accomplice, Draft Horse, or more correctly, BIONIC Draft Horse, as she now lurched and lumbered on a marvel of medical machinery, a zippy hip. This perky party was completed by Pika. Pika was petite and often found prowling or prone, peering at plants, being a brilliant botanical boss.

Pika, Bionic Draft Horse and Mountain Goat (photo from another recent outing)

Mountain Goat’s two canine companions, Silly Tilly and Ody the ‘Orrible ‘Ound completed the company. Silly Tilly was a seasoned summiter with a soft spot for snow but Ody the ‘Orrible ‘Ound was the opposite and Mountain Goat wanted to offer him the opportunity to demonstrate his doggie chops. Would he find hound heaven or end up in puppy purgatory?

Ody the 'Orrible 'Ound and Silly Tilly while they were behaving!

This enthusiastic troop tramped up the track a short way then swerved off up a steep slope that rose to the Lofty Ridge far above. Bionic Draft Horse plodded stolidly yet steadily upwards in her usual fashion. Pika was in pursuit but pivoted periodically to appraise an alpine inflorescence.

 “Look! It’s a FAB! A Fantastic Alpine Blossom!”, Pika proclaimed passionately.

Pika ascends the slope to the Sherwins ridge, pausing to survey the field for flowers. Lake Mary, Mammoth Lakes Basin, Minarets behind.

And she found some!

Meanwhile, Mountain Goat’s canine companions were in a frenzy of freedom, so affected by the awesome adventure that they disregarded her demands, her hails and her hollers to follow.

“To hell with those yells”, thought Silly Tilly and Ody the ‘Orrible ‘Ound as they bounded off, tearing about and scaring deer.

Mule deer avoiding the dogs (and humans)

Mountain Goat expressed exasperation emphatically. Eventually, on reaching the Lofty Ridge, Silly Tilly emerged, unrepentant, but Ody the ‘Orrible ‘Ound, remained recalcitrantly removed from the trio.

“Is Ody the ‘Orrible ‘Ound in hound heaven or puppy purgatory? Is he a summiter with a soft spot for snow or simply a slouch?“ mused Mountain Goat. “I have considerable qualms for his security and safety and sadly, I fear I must descend and deal with the dastardly doggie. But please do go on”.

And thus the trio was trimmed to a duo.

Atop the Lofty Ridge, they were accosted by that adversarial antagonist, the Wicked Wintry Wind of the West, who wiped out their warmth with dispatch. Clad in all their clothes, Pika pitter-pattered and BDH tromped and clomped towards Pointy Pyramid Peak. But in their way was the Towering Teat which loomed bare of blooms, basically bald but for beaten-down bushes.

The Nipple from the other side- deceptively steep!

“We can’t go under it. We can’t go around it. We’ll have to go over it” declared BDH, “It’s the only option”.

And so, on they went. Abreast the beast, Pika and BDH battled upwards in trudge-y drudgery (or was it drudge-y trudgery?). 

Pika inspecting a FAB on top of The Nipple

BDH signing the summit register on The Nipple

Surmounting the sloping summit of the Towering Teat, the duo descended slightly to a saddle. There, the Wicked Wintry Wind of the West whipped and whistled. The duo shivered and quivered. It felt icy and dicey.

“I’d love to be b-b-bold but I am indeed very c-c-cold”, pronounced Pika, “Is it preposterous to persist in our progress?”

“Perhaps,” began BDH, “but what if we wander just a teensy-tiny bit further? We can always turn back”.

And so, on they went. Always ascending while seeking shelter to dodge the dastardly drafts of the Wicked Wintry Wind of the West, they warmed somewhat. But in their way was the Castle of Crud, a drab, dark, dull hill, impeding their progress.

This subpeak looked pretty crappy but was actually quite easy to get over.

“I’m cold but I’m going to be bold as I’m sold on summiting that Castle of Crud. Is it preposterous for it to be the terminus of our trip?” peeped Pika.

“Perhaps,” began BDH, “but what if we wander just a teensy-tiny bit further? We can always turn back”.

And so, on they went. They crossed the Castle of Crud and immediately entered the Planet of Granite, where swathes of the stippled stone were set out for super scrambling. Pika skipped and tripped along (much like Mountain Goat would have) and BDH stumbled and bumbled behind, humming, for she had dreamed daily of these moments of movement in her confined convalescence, a little hum which went:

Hello Granite, my old friend

I’ve come to climb on you again

Because a dream of softly creeping

Left its seeds while I was sleeping

And the vision that was planted in my brain

Still remains

Within the sound of silence

                                                                                                                                                                        

And silent it was, as the Wicked Wintry Wind of the West had wandered away to whip and whistle elsewhere.

We finally reached the granite section of the ridge! Pika is pretty scrambly!

BDH staggering along behind bot loving every minite of it.

Pika had perked up and was almost dancing with delight as she was so entranced by the pincushion patches of FABs that festooned the granite-bound gaps of ground.

“I’m not cold and this is pure gold! Look at that stunning sedum garden!” rhapsodized Pika. “It’s a perfect pincushion patch!” as she lay prone, peering at the plants, being a brilliant botanical boss.

Pika in a beautiful sedum garden

Flowers up there are tiny and survive in a very cold, windswept environment

“Perhaps,” began BDH, “but what if we wander just a teensy-tiny bit further? There may be better blossoms beyond that stone spire up yonder.”

And so, on they went. They scrambled and rambled, wandering in the rapturous wonder at their fine fortune of finding themselves so far aloft in such a stunning situation, surrounded by snowy summits, grippy granite and fantastic FABs. They reached an airy aerie on a modest mound of rocks.

BDH at the high point. Not very good at standing on pointy things without falling off....

The Pointed Pyramid Peak hovered on the horizon. They were separated from the summit by only a small stretch but the Wicked Wintry Wind of the West, not completely content to whip and whistle elsewhere, huffed odd puffs of pure pique.

“Perhaps,” began BDH, “we should not wander just a teensy-tiny bit further. This appears a perfect place for the terminus of this trip”.

“I completely concur. That hill looks chilly,” agreed Pika. “Besides,” she added, “it’s lunchtime”.

So Pika and BDH sat, savoring their snacks and sandwiches, missing Mountain Goat, but profoundly pleased that they had found such a superb spot.

The duo at the high point. Still pretty chilly but better than earlier

Can you guess how they got down again?

 

Postscript: Mountain Goat found that ‘orrible ‘ound, Ody, down on the ground (and thankfully not in the Pound!), basically back where the trio had begun. Apparently, he had been in puppy purgatory, not in hound heaven.

“Surely,” sighed Mountain Goat, “he is simply a slouch and not a summiter with a soft spot for snow.”

Ody utterly pooped out and in the dog box for sure!

Massive Lake Mamie: an inaugural Mountain Goat and Bionic Draft Horse milestone micro adventure

Bionic Draft Horse was cheery and chuffed. After five weeks of hobbling and bobbling about on her brand new bionic hip, she had nixed the sticks. No more Zimmer frame! No more cane! No more pain! Well, the latter was a lie but it didn’t matter as she called her mate, Mountain Goat, for a natter.

“Mountain Goat, the moment has materialized for a milestone mission. Literally, my maiden mile, and some stones on a massive venture looping Lake Mamie. Will you join me?”

“Bionic Draft Horse, I would be delighted to dilly dally and loll and stroll along the lake.”

And so on a slightly smoky late-summer morning, they set off to circumnavigate a lovely lake that lay below lofty summits. As usual, Mountain goat skipped and tripped down the broad path, more leisurely than usual, kindly accommodating Bionic Draft Horse who lurched and listed behind with a purposeful plod.

Setting off around massive Lake Mamie below Crystal Crag and the Mammoth Crest

 “Be sensible, Bionic Draft Horse,” she cautioned her chum, “You must not stumble or tumble as that would cause trouble on the double”.

Bionic Draft Horse chortled and chuckled. Mountain Goat telling her to be sensible? What was the world coming to?

At the end of the lake, they lolled on a log, lollygagging at the lake’s pleasant and placid reflections. Mountain Goat had a costume change as the air had grown teensy weensy bit more tepid and she needed to strip a sweater. Strangely, there were no snacks but then again, they had been moving mere minutes.

Mammoth Mountain from Lake Mamie

Across the rocks, through the sand, around the outlet stream, and up the opposite shore they toiled, pausing to pick up fine filament line left by lazy anglers. Finally, after a testing and torturous total of 33 minutes, they completed the massive Lake Mamie maiden mile milestone together. What a fine micro adventure! The first of many (likely longer) more to come.

Hip hip hurray!

Bloody fishing line rubbish

Bloody ball-bustin’ Baldwin: Mountain Goat and Draft Horse summit a stinker.

Mountain Goat flitted fitfully back into town in her usual flighty fashion. “Draft Horse, we must explore once more for I am weary of the woods of Tenny-see and pine for my precious pointy peaks and alpine air! But this time, our adventure must be bolder and braver! It must beat our brows and bash our butts! ” Draft Horse had heard whispered in the underworld of wizened and wily wayfarers tall and terrible tales of a terrifically High and Mighty Mountain, a legendary and lurking pointy peak concealed a diabolical distance up a contorted canyon, a soaring summit with an infamy so frightful that she feared uttering its name.

“Bdwin” she barely breathed.

“I beg your pardon? My ears were not adequate for interpreting your accent. Could you please amplify the information? ” Mountain Goat requested.

Draft Horse, inhaling apprehensively and focusing on her feet, repeated the alarming appellation: “Baldwin”.

Mountain Goat gasped then rasped, “Baldwin??!! Are you batty? Are you barmy?”  

Draft Horse looked up slowly and met Mountain Goat’s gaze. There was a pregnant pause.

“Let’s do it!” They both blurted, bravely and boldly, not realizing that the feeling would be ephemeral.

***************************************************************************************************************

Dawn dawned as chipper Mountain Goat, skipped and Draft Horse stolidly strode along the stunning shores of Wit-Sa-Nap which gleamed and glinted, reflecting the early sun under the sentinel stares of the proud pair, Laurie and Morrie.

“I do believe these usually unnoticeable undulations will undo us on our return, Mountain Goat,” warned Draft Horse.

“Tish tosh, what undulations? This footpath is fundamentally flat”, dismissed Mountain Goat, leading the way with a spring in her step.  

Wendy starting off around Convict Lake on one of those pesky undulations. Laurel Mountain behind

“Where in the world IS this High and Mighty Mountain, anyway?” queried Mountain Goat, gazing and gaping up at Laurie and Morrie. (You may remember that Mountain Goat was not a master of maps; in this duty, Draft Horse dominated.)

“I believe Baldwin is beyond Laurie and Morrie. We must move on.” replied Draft Horse.

Mount Morrison

Laurel Mountain

Soon enough, they reached the end of the lake and began a steady ascent up the contorted canyon. Multihued rock layers of ancient seabed writhed in ridiculous ways in the Canyon Cliffs. At its base, a Crashing Creek clattered and splattered down a tumble of black boulders. Draft Horse and Mountain Goat zigged and they zagged. They crossed vast fields of fallen rubble from the crumbling crags. They traversed groves of glorious aspens approaching autumn.

“Where in the world IS this High and Mighty Mountain?” enquired Mountain Goat, gazing and gaping at the Crashing Creek and the Canyon Cliffs.

“I believe Baldwin is beyond the Crashing Creek and the Canyon Cliffs. We must move on.” replied Draft Horse.

Geologically ancient walls of Convict Canyon

First bit of colour in the aspens in Convict Canyon

One of many rockfalls to cross up Convict Canyon

Finally, they reached the river which required crossing. But it was passable only over slippery stepping stones above the splashing of the icy stream. Of course, Mountain Goat pranced and danced her way over with great grace. And of course, Draft Horse decided to deploy quadruped poles and plodded her way over ponderously. Beyond, the path narrowed and snaked upwards, perched precariously on a Steep Slope of Sharp Scree. A fumble or a stumble would surely result in a careening tumble to the Crashing Creek now far below.

“Where in the world IS this High and Mighty Mountain?” demanded Mountain Goat, gazing and gaping at the Steep Slope of Sharp Scree.

“I believe Baldwin is beyond the Steep Slope of Sharp Scree. We must move on.” responded Draft Horse.

Convict Creek crossing - always spicy!

Narrow trail on the scree slope above the creek crossing.

Eventually, they escaped the Steep Slope of Sharp Scree and, with lagging legs and hurting hooves, crested a ridge. There they saw a spectacular sight. A Languid Lake, Millie by name, lapped along a Lengthy Gentle Valley. Beyond Millie’s mild millpond, a sinuous stream disappeared towards a Striking Striped Summit at the head of the Lengthy Gentle Valley.

“Surely THAT must be the High and Mighty Mountain!” exclaimed Mountain Goat, gazing and gaping at the Striking Striped Summit beyond the Languid Lake and the Lengthy Gentle Valley.

“Sorry to disappoint you but sadly it is not,” countered Draft Horse. “I believe Baldwin is beyond the Languid Lake, hiding behind the Lengthy Gentle Valley. We must move on”.

Lake Mildred and the distinctive Red Slate Mountain. This is usually a day hike in itself.

So they started off along the sinuous stream that meandered through muddy meadows along the Lengthy Gentle Valley, stopping at Snack Stop A by a slow and shallow shoal. As they rounded a sloping shoulder behind which a Trickling Tributary spilled, they stopped suddenly, stunned. For fearfully far above towered a terrifically tall Soaring Summit, looming loftily. It looked hopelessly high.

“I believe Baldwin is that High and Mighty Mountain,” said Draft Horse, gazing and gaping at the Soaring Summit.

Mountain Goat gulped. “But Draft Horse, we have already done a diabolical distance! We have wound around Wit Sa Nap, climbed the contorted canyon beneath the Canyon Cliffs, crossed the Crashing Creek, scrambled up the Steep Slope of Sharp Scree, and ambled along the Lengthy Gentle Valley. How much more time must we spend ascending? My legs are lapsing and my hooves are hurting!”

“Me too, Mountain Goat,” Draft Horse concurred. “But we must be brave and bold for this is surely where shit gets real”. She was eyeing the Trickling Tributary, the reported requisite rocky route to reach the High and Mighty Mountain. The track trailed off rapidly in the tricky terrain. “We must move on. The High and Mighty Mountain is still fearfully far.”

[AUTHOR"S NOTE: No photo exists of this intimidating sight, so overwhelmed were the pair by the prospect of the coming ascent. They were not even halfway]

And so the fast friends started up the trickling tributary, slow legs plodding. Even Mountain Goat, famous for skipping and tripping, began to lurch and lumber. They crossed a broad, barren plateau (“Are we on the moon?” wondered Draft Horse), then climbed a constricted canyon. Mountain Goat, not renowned for her route finding, led Draft Horse up a rocky ridge. Two other intrepid adventurers, unaware of her reputation, faithfully followed. Regrettably, it was the Wrong Rocky Ridge.

“Oops,” said Mountain Goat.

“Whoops,“ said Draft Horse.

Contrasting rock colours up a narrow canyon

But they spied the Right Rocky Ridge, and, mumbling an apology to the other intrepid adventurers, directly descended and corrected their route to the Right Rocky Ridge. Up, up, up they toiled alone along the Right Rocky Ridge (the other intrepid adventurers, doubtlessly discouraged by Mountain Goat’s regrettable route finding, having retreated) until they spied Snack Stop B, an airy aerie indeed. There, they munched momentarily, admiring the monstrous mountain which STILL seemed fearfully far.

Wendy working her way up the northwest ridge of Mount Baldwin. Lake Dorothy behind.

“How much further is it?” whined Draft Horse, feeling fearsome fatigue.

“Draft Horse, I do believe you are suffering from the first signs of HAWS” intoned Mountain Goat gravely.

Draft Horse was particularly perplexed. “Horse? Well, I AM a Draft Horse, so what do you expect?” (Draft Horse, originating in the Antipodes, remained unaccustomed at times to-American accents)

“No, HAWS. High Altitude Whining Syndrome.”

“Oh no! Is it contagious?” gasped Draft Horse.

“It can be. We must be very vigilant. It can be terminal.”

“Terminal? How?”

“If you suffer from HAWS, you are at a high risk of mortality from, ahem, mishaps in the presence of your precious partner. Draft Horse, we have to hem in HAWS!”.

“And how do we hem in HAWS?”

“We confine the whine! Remember that we must be brave and bold on Baldwin!”

And so confine the whine, they did, bravely and boldly. Mountain Goat mounted the exposed escarpment with exquisite elegance while Draft Horse scratched and scrabbled along behind. As they scrambled across the steep face of that soaring summit, past a mysterious mine of clear crystals, and grunted up the gobs of ghastly gravel to the tippy top, neither Draft Horse nor Mountain Goat expressed the slightest dissatisfaction. Uncomplainingly, they compliantly confined the whine although the whole of them hurt horrendously. Instead, between labored breaths, they joked and jibed and teased and talked, boosting and buoying each other until they tread on the tippy top.

Dallas working her way up the northwest face of Mount Baldwin. Bright Dot Lake behind.

Wendy climbing up the face.

Calcite crystals at the old Bausch and Lomb mine at about 12,000ft
.

The awful sandy slog up the final ridge to the summit. Bright Dot Lake and Convict Canyon to the left rear and the ridgeline to Mount Morrison to the right rear.

“It is now fine to whine for a time”, declared Mountain Goat.

“That was a gut-buster!” moaned Draft Horse. “I am now knackered!”

“That was an ass-kicker!” groaned Mountain Goat. “I am definitely done like a dog’s dinner!”

And so the whining was confined to a time at the tippy top of that Soaring Summit and HAWS was hemmed in.

The pooped pair lolled and lollygagged and lunched on that legendary and lurking pointy peak, delaying the descent. 

View down McGee Creek from the summit. Mount Baldwin dominates the view from there.

Looking east along the ridgeline from the summit to White Fang and Mount Morrison

But eventually, down they dawdled (you know the route now), lurching and lumbering, stumbling and fumbling, slipping and sliding (sadly into the stream!). Mountain Goat cooled off with a plunge in the no longer languid Lake Millie, turning blue in biting breeze. They paused periodically for a confined whine. Along the stunning shores of Wit-Sa-Nap, the pair appeared near dead, their heads dreadfully drooping. Mountain Goat moaned about the usually unnoticeable undulations and Draft Horse groaned, too. But they were not undone… quite.

Approaching Convict Lake on the descent as the sun goes down

As the sun set behind the sentinels of Laurie and Morrie, Draft Horse and Mountain Goat staggered to the extreme end where they slumped on a sturdy stone, devouring delicious delights.

Draft Horse, demolished and near demented, lamented, “Well, bloody Baldwin beat our brows and bashed our butts even though we were brave and bold.“

Mountain Goat assented, sapped and spent. “Bloody Baldwin was a ball buster!”

Draft Horse winked. “It was certainly a stinker, my friend. But at least we don’t have balls!”

A pooped but particularly pleased pair!

Rock 'n Roll or Lurch and Lumber? A Mountain Goat and Draft Horse Adventure.

Draft Horse was feeling eager and excited. But also anxious and apprehensive. Mountain Goat was back in town (again), ardently awaiting an Awesome Adventure on a Pointy Peak with her ponderous partner–in-crime. But neither Mountain Goat nor Draft Horse was feeling exactly in the tippy toppest of tiptop shape. Mountain Goat had been languishing in the lowlands of Tenny-see and the anoxic alpine air of the Great Snowy Mountains made her huff and puff and gasp and rasp. Draft Horse was recovering from an insulting injury to her favoured foreleg. She was of the opinion that chocolate was requisite for a rapid recovery and as she relished a rapid recovery, she had chomped and chewed that choccie with diligent dedication from her soft and squishy sofa. The result was regrettably not a rapid recovery, but a Draft Horse who was even draft-horsier than usual (if you can imagine!).

And so it was, as they were standing in the shadows of the Pointy Peak, about to start strolling upwards Searing Sun made an appearance, Mountain Goat uttered “Let’s rock ‘n’ roll!” with the teensiest tinge of trepidation. 

Draft Horse muttered, in a tone reminiscent of dear Eeyore, “Let’s lurch and lumber!”

 

Mountain Goat and Draft Horse saw not a soul as they slowly ascended the tame but tiresome trail that led eventually to a JAGL (Just Another Gorgeous Lake). Or perhaps it was a YABL (Yet Another Beautiful Lake). In the far, far distance, loomed the ludricously lofty Pointy Peak. They stopped to snack while savoring the sight but were soon besieged by a squadron of marauding mosquitoes. “Let’s rock ‘n’ roll,” exclaimed Mountain Goat.

“Let’s lurch and lumber,” chorused Draft Horse.

The YABL or JAGL: Francis Lake from the Tamarack Lakes Trailhead at Rock Creek Lake. Mount Morgan South (13,775ft) is the high point in the distance. The route to the ridge is on the right.

 

Above the JAGL (or YABL), their rocky route rose to a remote ridge that appeared to be a jumbled tumble of talus leading eventually to the Pointy Peak.  They regarded the ridge with some alarm. It looked fearfully far. “I think perhaps I will aim to merely reach the ridge”, stated Draft Horse, feeling her foreleg throb, “The Pointy Peak appears ludicrously lofty. “ However, Mountain Goat confidently declared “I believe I can foot it further” and began bounding bouncily upwards. “Let’s rock ‘n’ roll!”

“Let’s lurch and lumber” mumbled Draft Horse, stumbling along in her wake.

So up up up they climbed, both of them rasping and gasping and huffing and puffing in the alpine air. Draft Horse waddled and toddled while Mountain Goat skipped and tripped (albeit with a little less of her usual sashay and swagger and a smidgen more of a shambling amble). There was noticeably less of the chitting and chatting of the ways of the world than usual but Mountain Goat stopped for several costume changes so THAT hadn’t changed in the least! Draft Horse added one layer which made Mountain Goat declare the costume change count to be coequal. As mathematics was not Mountain Goat’s domain and reaching the rocky ridge appeared imminent, they quit quibbling and amicably agreed to disagree. “Let’s rock ‘n roll”, suggested Mountain Goat.

“Let’s lurch and lumber,” agreed Draft Horse.

 

The ridge leading to the summit.

Finally, with limp legs and lit lungs, they reached the remote rocky ridge. There a spectacular and sublime scene was revealed and they reveled in that stunning sight.  Mountain Goat gasped and Draft Horse rasped, but this time their rasps and gasps were not due to the alpine air but to absolute astonishment. A necklace of lakes far below shimmered and shone, surrounded by the rocky ramparts of a semi-circle of magnificent mountains joined by jaggy ridges. They were enthralled and enchanted, engaged and engrossed. Draft Horse fully forgot her lagging and nagging foreleg. “Let’s rock ‘n’ roll,” she breathed, “I believe I’m able to amble along beyond!”

“Me too!” avowed Mountain Goat, in emphatic and unambiguous assent.

 

Little Lakes Valley with Bear Creek Spire, and Mounts Dade, Abbot and Mills.

Bewitched and beguiled, revitalized and refreshed, enthused and encouraged, they pranced and danced up that remote and rocky ridge, commenting on the exceptional quality of the talus, which was perfectly placed quite without malice. At times, Draft Horse even did a passable impression of Mountain Goat! 

Some most excellent A+ "Dallas Talus" on the ridge. Dallas is doing her Wendy impression.

The airy aerie was painted with purple Polly Moanium and her pals, who did not seem to be moaning at all but blooming and burgeoning in abundance.  

Polemonium(Sky Pilot) in bloom at 13,000ft

It was a splendid saunter to a superb summit. Like always, they lollygagged on that Pointy Peak while they lounged and lingered and lolled, their energy ebbing. 

Wendy lounging at the summit of Mount Morgan South

Eventually, Mountain Goat, reluctant but resigned, sighed, “Let’s rock ‘n’ roll.”

Draft Horse, whose lumpy legs had lost their liveliness, spluttered “Let’s lurch and lumber”.

The rocky ridge seemed to have stretched significantly on the descent. Draft Horse came to a precipitous pause. "My beleaguered and besieged brain is in pain! I have paralysis by analysis. Which way do we wander?" she wondered woefully. "This way. Or that way. Either one" Mountain Goat obligingly offered. On they went. As they wandered down from the remote rocky ridge, they sniffed the scent of smoke. Behind them, the air grew acrid as the wind whipped signs of a faraway ferocious fire towards them, obscuring the Pointy Peak in a somber shroud. The remote rocky ridge was now an eerie airy aerie. Draft Horse and Mountain Goat stepped up their steps. 

They were thankful to now not be rasping and gasping and huffing and puffing in that smoke. 

They were thankful to have seen the spectacular scene of the incredible canyon. 

They were thankful to have perched on the Pointy Peak, lounging, lingering and lolling. 

They were thankful to have adventured audaciously again in the Great Snowy Mountains. 

But most of all, they were thankful for lightheartedness and laughter, for exuberance and exhilaration, for joy and jubilance, and last but DEFINITELY not least, for infallible and indefatigable friendship.

Showing off our new shiny jackets!

“Rock ‘n rolling or lurching and lumbering, it doesn’t really matter, does it?” reflected Draft Horse. “Not at all”, replied Mountain Goat as they stumbled and fumbled (and occasionally grumbled) their way to the end of another Awesome Adventure.

Whinger and Whipper take a Walk: a Draft Horse Bedtime Story.

Draft Horse was drained. Pooped. Fatigued. Out of gas. Knackered. Done like a dog’s dinner. Her immunity had been insulted by an important injection. She was languishing lazily in Whare Manu, her alpine abode. Winter was coming, the leaves were falling, and the fire crackled in the corner with Captain the Cat curled cozily on a cushion. Outside, however, Sierra Sun shone, warming the air with a swan song of the summer spent that was sure to be short-lived.

“Draft Horse, you cannot let the day waste away!” cried Whipper. “You must get out!”

“But you are too tired, you must rest and recover!” contradicted Whinger.

Whinger and Whipper were Draft Horse’s Constant Companions. But they were always quibbling and quarreling and could NEVER agree.

“Only one more Munro day to reach your goal,” Whipper enthused, alluding to the mighty measures of her Caledonian friends, MacFaff and Meep, Munros being pointy peaks of a certain size in the homeland. “You will rejoice in attaining this audacious ambition!”

“You will regret this inadvisable adventure, more like it!” answered Whinger.

Draft Horse pondered and she wondered. She dillied and she dallied. Finally, with a surrendering sigh, she heaved herself up. It was time to tootle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So soon they set off around the shores of Wit-sa-nap, the great dent in the ground, and up a colorful canyon with writhing rock walls. 

Wit-sa-nap, Convict lake

Convict Canyon features ancient sedimentary and metamorphic rock (500-260 million years old) that lies on top of the Sierra granite. 

Suddenly Draft Horse’s tippy toes became tangled and she slumped and thumped forward, knocking knees and roiling wrists. Her noggin nearly smacked a stone.

“Oh bother!” exclaimed Draft Horse.

“I told you that you would regret this inadvisable adventure,” tutted Whinger in a rather smug tone. “You should head home!”

“Oh pick yourself up, you clumsy lummock, you won’t rejoice in attaining your audacious ambition unless you forge forward,” chastised Whipper.

Draft Horse inspected her injuries. It appeared that primarily pride was wounded and that amputation was avoided. With a surrendering sigh, she heaved herself up.

 It was time to tootle. As she lumbered and lurched upwards, her legs lagging, the shiny sleeve of her cherished coat was grabbed Bristly Bush who gashed open a gaping tear. An explosion of fabulous filmy feathers floated and fluttered in the air.

“Oh bother!” exclaimed Draft Horse.

“That’s another reason to regret attempting this inadvisable adventure,” snarked Whinger. “You should head home!”

“Jacket schmacket. What are you? A clothes horse or a drafthorse?” chided Whipper. “You can still forge forward and attain your audacious ambition.”

Draft Horse examined the damage. She rooted about in her rucksack, retrieved a roll of tacky tape, and repaired the rent sleeve. With a sad sigh (for it truly was her favorite jacket, so splendidly light and gorgeously green), she heaved herself up. It was time to tootle. After a time, she reached a point where once had stood a burly bridge crossing the raging river. 

After the massive snow year, this river had only just become safely passable in October.

However, the burly bridge was busted. Crossing was now a tossup – splashing or springing. It was chilly in the hills and wading in the frigid flow would freeze her tender tootsies. On the other hand, a lengthy leap over wild white water was not an appealing deal for a Draft Horse either.

“Oh bother!” exclaimed Draft Horse.

“Either way, you could take a dunk in the drink. Then you would regret this inadvisable adventure,” opined Whinger. “You should head home!”

“Tish tosh. What are you? Man or mouse? It’s only a little leap - deploy your extra legs!” bullied Whipper. “One brave bound and you will be off to attain your audacious ambition”.

Draft Horse scouted the scary step. She positioned her poles perfectly and bounded from boulder to boulder, bypassing the busted burly bridge. With a relieved sigh, she heaved herself up the opposite bank. It was time to tootle. But soon the trail grew treacherous and trippy, the paltry path perched precariously on a shifty scree slope high above the raging river. 

The improving trail about the washed-out sketchy section - no photos of the nasty bits

She reached an eroded runnel that had washed out the way forward. A few steps on a rocky outcrop led to some steep and sketchy scree to be crossed before the trail was regained.

“Oh bother!” exclaimed Draft Horse.

“You could stumble on the crumbly rock and take a rumbling tumble all the way down, down, down to the rushing river. That would be the end of your inadvisable adventure,” warned Whinger. “You should go home!”

“Oh phooey, you namby-pamby baby! Rattle your dags and just get on with it,” prodded Whipper. “Several slippery steps are the only thing stopping you from attaining your audacious ambition!”

Draft Horse surveyed the slippery scree.  Extremely elegantly, she dropped to her derrière and scooched safely down the rocky outcrop, simply skirting the sketchy steps. “Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it, Whipper,” she muttered. With a satisfied sigh, she heaved herself up onto the trail. It was time to tootle.

Looking back down the canyon

 On and on she went, working her way towards the first of a duo of lady lakes, Mildred.

“Mildred must be almost adjacent,” she thought, feeling frightfully fatigued. She plopped down on a perfectly placed plank to peer at her piece of paper with a picture of the path. She moaned - it might be miles until Mildred materialized!

“Oh bother!” cursed Draft Horse.

“Your legs are lagging, your tummy is in turmoil, and your dome feels dreadful. You should end this inadvisable adventure,” whined Whinger “You should go home!”

“For the love of Pete, you pathetic, pitiful pony! Pick up the pace!” goaded Whipper, mercilessly. “How else will you attain your audacious ambition?”

But it was nearly noon and her tummy was rumbling so Draft Horse decided to dine without delay despite disappointingly not reaching her destination. Eventually, with a satiated sigh, she heaved herself up. It was time to tootle. Scarcely several short seconds later, she rounded a mound of ground and found…. Mildred!

Lake Mildred from above

“You nincompoop! You ninny! You nitwit!” whooped Whipper with a great guffaw.

“You dolt! You dunce! You dunderhead!” wailed Whinger. “You should DEFINITELY go home!” But then she started to giggle giddily. And so did Draft Horse. Soon the three of them were rolling on that mound of ground in ridiculous glee.

“Oh we are a lot of Silly Billies, aren’t we?” chuckled Draft Horse.

And she DID go home. But not before forging forward to the second lady lake, Dorothy, at which the scenery was splendid, dominated by a summit of scarlet slate with a great gash of a gully, and at which she attained the audacious ambition of a 20^th Munro day.

Lake Dorothy and the Sierra Crest, Red Slate Mountain to the left.

Red Slate Mountain and its infamous coloir above Lake Mildred

Back at her alpine abode, the dreadfully drained Draft Horse dropped to the floor, flopping and drooping.

“Are you regretting your perversity in attempting that inadvisable adventure?” enquired Whinger.”

“Are you rejoicing in your perseverance in attaining that audacious ambition?” countered Whipper?

“Thank you for your perspectives,” replied Draft Horse. “But neither of you are on the nose. Both of you are right and both of you are wrong. Today was a mixed bag! And now, kindly quit quibbling and quarreling, my Constant Companions, for I am going to bed.”

A very very late wildflower.