By Paul Willis
There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up. —René Daumal, Mount Analogue
Sitting here, high on the shoulder of a peak in the Ansel Adams Wilderness, I am looking down at a grassy swale where I startled a herd of eleven mule deer. From this height they are now too small to be seen, but they kept their ground as I detoured around them on scree and talus, not wanting to disturb their pasture. And looking down in the other direction, a blood-red canyon drops away to the round expanse of an alkali lake, from this vantage point its two or three islands an obvious continuation of a series of craters to the south. And, looking up, the summit of the mountain I'm on rises gently, inviting me to visit before thunderheads build and explode, just as they did yesterday on my way down another summit. Such a relief to be lost in sky, no other purpose beyond placing the next boot, the next hoof.
There are bighorn sheep up here as well, though I've yet to see one in the Sierra. Almost fifty years ago, my brother brought a pair of ram's horns back from a ledge just north of here. (Then, conscience-stricken, he returned them.) A few years later he came home from a cold mountain in Alaska without his fingers or his feet. He was supposed to come on this hike with me—he on horseback, I on foot—but what is left of one of his feet is sore and infected, and so he had to take a pass. Exactly fifty years ago we climbed our first peak together, in the Cascades of Oregon, and I climb this mountain thinking of him. A neighboring summit, according to the guidebook, was first ascended on horseback in 1864, and certainly my brother could have ridden up the shallow slopes that I climb now.
As I pause again beneath the crest, seven dished-out resting places appear at my feet. For deer, by the look of the scat, though what if these are bowers for bighorns? I'd rest here too—am resting here—as I think about the last few steps to the summit, that place where earth becomes the air and there are no more steps to take. And then, having lunched and lingered on the top, traversing from one peak to the next for a better view, I see a flash of white rumps, curved horns, as six or eight bighorn sheep clatter over the edge of the slope. A miracle of wish and witness, there and gone. But one has seen, says René Daumal. And as I descend, I carry with me the stutter of hooves into the stubborn cliffs below.
Paul Willis is a professor of English at Westmont College in Santa Barbara, California. He has published six collections of poetry, the most recent of which are Deer at Twilight: Poems from the North Cascades (Stephen F. Austin State University Press, 2018) and Little Rhymes for Lowly Plants (White Violet Press, 2019). He is also the author of an eco-fantasy novel, The Alpine Tales (WordFarm, 2010), and of the essay collections Bright Shoots of Everlastingness (WordFarm, 2005) and To Build a Trail (WordFarm, 2018). Years ago, he played a small part in gaining protection for the Salmo-Priest Wilderness in the northeast corner of Washington state. www.pauljwillis.com
Photo: Bighorn sheep by Steve Yeager
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Comments 50
I feel that I know your brother's sense of loss. I suffer from Arterial Disease and COPD after too many years of cigarettes and other pleasures.
I spent part of my 17th summer in the mountains with my parents. Didn't have enough time to hike and explore as much as I would have liked.
Now I'm back in Texas after 7 years of living in Colorado, wishing the whole time I could take those hikes. Thanks for sharing the feeling.
Just do something to help the animals. There are far to few people who care anymore....and far to many who want them dead and could care less about what happens to them. I hope when I die I will become some type of animal angel.....to help them , to protect them and to wreck the lives of those who harm them. Wishful thinking.
What a lovely, gentle piece of writing. And what a great tribute to your brother. Thanks so much for sharing your love if nature and your brother in this often hateful time!
Thoroughly enjoyed this. Wish I and his brother could have been with him. I'll never experience the beauty of nature as he has. Thanks for sharing it.
Thank you for the beautiful story!! I was able to visualize what you described. That is not something I would ever do, so I appreciate that you do it, and share the experience with readers who are interested, and in a poetic way. I am very sorry for what your brother is enduring and the challenges ahead of him. My best wishes to him! Sincerely, Denise L.
Thank you for all you do. Your knowledge and experience is so important to protecting our environment and educating others as well. Please keep it up.
I live in the foothills of the Colorado Rockies, 7500 feet above sea level. Deer, bear, mountain lions, bobcats, fox, an occasional elk, and coyotes are my neighbors. The trail I run on up the road has moose and elk. I’m in heaven on earth. Not a day goes by I’m not grateful for this beautiful land.
SO WONDERFUL!
That was a wonderful respite in the middle of my workday where I'm sitting at a computer. I was temporarily transported to the wide-open outdoors. Thank you.
Beautiful story of a wonderful area. To see the wildlife & feel & hear (silence) this place must have been a wonder. Its so sad your brother was unable to be there - maybe next time? Thank you for this look at a place many of us will never be able to physically see.