Shadows On A Cloud

SHADOWS ON A CLOUD  

BY NOEL LAFLIN
October 2000/May 2012

                                                                

June 2012 - Looking westward toward the peak of the mountain.



           When I was 16 years old I was invited to climb Mt. San Jacinto, the lone granite giant looming over Palm Springs and the valley floor below.  The proposed hike would begin on the Idyllwild side of the mountain, starting at a trailhead called "Devil's Slide."  Ironically, I had broken my left leg in three places on this very same spot two years earlier while sledding down an icy slope.  The thought made me shiver that this was the kick-off point for the hike.  Nonetheless, we would start here and wind ever higher up the trail, making camp in two different locations over the weekend.  We would then reach the peak, traverse a different trail and ride the tram down the cable back to Palm Springs.   Our adventure was to begin on a Friday night, mid-October, 1969.

          I was very excited, not only at the prospect of this grand 25-mile hike, but happy to be in the company of good friends.  Chuck Bausback and his sons had become very much a part of my life.  We had met the year before at Ahwahnee.  Father, sons and I bonded immediately; they made me feel like a member of the family.   

          We drove to Idyllwild and parked at the trailhead.  It was after nine.  It was also cold with some frost on the ground.  You could see your breath.  Flashbacks of that all too recently broken leg weren't far from my thoughts.  I wanted to be away from this area.  It was pitch black as our flashlights scanned the trail ahead.  Chuck knew the area well.  In fact he knew more than any man I've ever met to this day about California history, geography, topography and trivia in general.  He charmed me at an early age and continues to amaze me with his vast knowledge, not to mention both his humor and his wit some four decades later.   

          So, off we trudged, the packs seeming to weigh twice their weight while carried up the switchbacks.  Sometime around midnight we made camp at "Skunk Cabbage." Our little party was cold and tired.  Chuck got out the gas burner and made hot chocolate.  It was down to freezing.  We were at seventy-nine hundred feet.  It was a chilly night.

          Come the morning I discovered our exquisite surroundings.  We were in a pristine meadow, far removed from the smog and grit of LA.  The sky was crystal blue, the trees majestic and the wildlife plentiful.  We shivered in the early morning light looking for patches of sunshine in which to stand and warm ourselves.  When breakfast was over we broke camp and were on our way.  We hiked that entire Saturday, stopping only for lunch and breaks.  Any excuse to rest our packs was a godsend.

          We climbed steadily, eventually making camp at a site scattered with large, strange rock formations. The day was quickly drawing to a close.  We were going to lose the light soon.  Chuck scanned the sky and told us to drop our gear and make a move for the peak.  We dropped our heavy loads and scrambled up and over large boulders, now running up the trail.  The sun was going down quickly. 

         We reached the summit of barren granite. There was a small stone cabin, used in emergencies for hikers in need of shelter.  Additionally, there was a ledger in a metal jacket cover in which to write your name, date and thoughts.  There was a US Geological marker at the very highest elevation.  All of this was interesting, but what captured my attention was the view.  Chuck spouted off several facts:  San Jacinto is unique in that it is a mountain range all unto itself, raising 10,834 feet right out of the desert floor.  It's the second highest prominent peak in Southern California, barely beaten out by San Gorgonio, now visible to us miles away in the distance.  “This is the steepest vertical rise of its kind, boys; look about you … look below!"  And, look we did.  It seemed like the entire world was laid out beneath us.  With wind blowing hard in our faces, our noses dripping, our backs aching from the all-day climb, sweat drying and chilling us to the rocks, we stared below.  A vast triangular shape loomed over the entire Palm Springs basin.  It was the shadow of the mountain.  Its length must have stretched forty miles or more across the desert.  The sun was sinking fast behind us.

          Looking eastward there was a band of pink and white clouds, somewhere in the direction of Arizona.  As the sun sank lower, a small black pyramid of a shape suddenly appeared on the bank of those eastern clouds, another state away.  We all stared intently at that small black triangle, dead center in the middle of the cloudbank.  It was a perfect silhouette.

           “Of what?” I wondered.

           "No way … that’s us," I whispered in answer.  

           Similar thoughts were erupting from the others. 

           "Wow, that shadow on the clouds ... it's this mountain!" one boy ventured. 

           We were in collective awe.  I felt as if my spirit had been transported to those far away clouds at the speed of light, which in fact, it had.  It was light that was causing this phenomenon. 

           The small shadow of our mountain lingered a bit on the cloudbank, and then began to slip away. With the final dip of the sun, so did our shadow.  The illusion was gone. 

           It was dark, beyond twilight now.  The wind was picking up, sending the nickel balsa gliders we had carried to the peak and tossed into the air (to see if they really would fly all the way to some golf course far below) back in our direction.  Their flight patterns were helter skelter as they crashed at our feet.  And it was cold.  We reluctantly gathered our broken planes and left the summit, each of us glancing over our shoulders for one last look at what had been. There were only puffy, fading clouds now. 

          "Wow," I whispered for the tenth time,

         "Wow," another echoed in quiet reply.

          We made our way back to camp.    After dinner we spoke in hushed voices of what we had seen.  ‘Awesome’ and ‘Fantastic’ were two words that kept creeping into the conversation.

          The next morning we hiked out of this wondrous spot and met our friends at the tram station. I had never been in a cable car suspended by huge fantastic wires like this.  We glided down the mountain leaving one environmental zone after another behind us; from alpine to desert in mere minutes. 

          “Unbelievable," I quietly chanted again and again.  I kept staring up the mountain as it grew further away.  I continued to stare at it as we drove down Highway 111 and onto the 10 Interstate.  I stared until it was out of sight, but never out of mind.

          There are times to this day, when I am driving within certain parts of this or a neighboring county and the air is clear and fine and the angle just right, that I catch a glimpse of San Jacinto.  Its jagged crown is very recognizable.  Each time I see it, even if for only a moment or two, I am transported back to 1969.

 I have since made the hike to the summit three more times over the course of these 40 years; once for each decade I suppose. And, I even lost the trail for a considerable amount of time on one memorable 4^th of July hike – reclimbing the damn peak by sheer accident and self-induced ineptitude.  But I've never been there again at sunset.  It would probably not be the same anyway. 

However, if there were a chance for distant clouds in the east, I might just be tempted to make that hard climb once more and linger till dark, waiting for far away shadows.