by David Huebner
(Journal entry)9-11-00:

...We've been walkin', so far, for so long, like we've not really gone anywhere, it's all come to us, each pass flowing closer, up over, every summit passing under us while we sit and look about the world. We're all forgotten, Uncle Sam doesn't know we're here, no permit, no fishing liscense, no cares for that man made world. Over two months on Our Land, yes, "This land is your land, this land is my land," ringing in time with the birds in the trees, soaring thru the air. We haven't been on any trail, nor any prescribed "route" out of some dead tree book put out by someone looking for an extra nickel. We've been following the land, all its deviations, variations, spontaneous inspirations. We've had no purpose, no goal, no goddamn sponsorship. Here we sit, gone hiking, gone climbing; we pick the ripe berries from the branches...


WHAT ARE WE but the grasses and the trees, the sun rises and sets, Time has nothing to do with it, Money is even farther away, oh people we are simply of these mountains, these rivers, glaciers gone, still moving the landscape. All summer three of us slept on the ground, hiked through basins, over passes and cols from one place to another, caught magical fish, stood on breezy summits; our trip seemed to be no trip at all, for as the days passed it felt more and more like we had no-where to go, and had come from no-where at all--in limbo among Life, we were living.

Huck is a San Diego surfer, who a while ago gave up all that city-life trash for the pure mountain life. For the past few years he's been rotating from Central Coast California to Tahoe to the Eastside Sierra Nevada to the Pacific Northwest, where and when the spirit or school moves him. Looking for nothing he seems to've found everything--climbing mountains in the Sierra, finding freedom on his bike, studying trees inbetween. Although several bad ankle rolls/sprains have made him wary, he tends to take flight rather frequently while running the hillsides of the Sierra, bringing the wild spirit to the surface with echoes ringing in the branches.
Mr. X is the invisible laugh and vulgar comment carried on the wind to your ear where ever you may be, the twinkle in the sky, the sparkle of the granite. An escapee of marching ant suburban nightmare Eastern Los Angeles San Gabriel Valley doldrums, he's been in the mountains for awhile, Colorado, California, Wyoming, Washington, B.C., and he'd like it if no one would ever write about him so, hey just forget all this alright.

And me, I just happen to know these guys, share the feeling, and am commited to a life in the mountains.

That is all, just ta give ya the lowdown. We're nobodys. We like it that way.



IT ALL BEGAN WITH A MARMOT in Miter Basin, down South in the Sierra a ways. He was hanging out in camp with us one morning, and we took a liking to the guy. Thing was, he had a bad left front leg, and was blind in his left eye. Now how many disabled marmots do you see in the backcountry? Huck gave him the title of The Gimp. The story began there, simply The Gimp of Miter Basin, but as we hiked over Crabtree Pass that day, the story developed into The Gimp as a war hero in the Great War between the marmots of Crabtree Lakes, and those of Miter Basin. Apparently he was influencial in the peace talks that brought about an end to the fighting. We tried many times unsuccessfully to speak with other marmots about The Gimp and The War. We would introduce ourselves as being from The Park Service, and that we're friends of The Gimp, usually yelling, "We know The Gimp! We need to find out information about Mt. Guyot!(we pronouce it Gûy-ôt because that's how the marmots pronounce it)" Marmots don't seem to respond well to intense interogation. Rather than answering our questions they usually just hid inbetween or under boulders. The story continued to grow though, without any additional help from our fellow basin residents, and the history of Mt. Guyot as well as The Great War was discovered.
Every year Marmots must make a pilgrimage to Mt. Guyot and place a stone on the summit. It is their Mecca, and The Gimp is their Messiah. We thought this explained quite well the strange conical shape of Mt. Guyot, it's strange location, and the definite unwillingness on the part of the marmots to respond to any questions regarding the matter. It is a sacrilege to speak of The War or The Gimp directly, and we believe most marmots would rather die in silence that expose themselves to attack from their peers by giving any details.



RUNNING WITH THE STORY of The Gimp is where it all started, this loss of any damn "reality", this crazy 71 day trip, now, let me tell you a bit about the fish. I can't say too much because of course, then I'd have to kill you and myself, but somewhere among the many incredible granite high basins of the Southern Sierra lurks a grandiose species of Golden Trout. Huge, wise, beautiful fish, most definitely feeling akin to Salmon, with meat as red, and spawning practices as similar. We suspect there are specimens up to 24 inches or more(we've held in our very own hands 18 inch wonders), but it's doubtful you can catch 'em. They are a thing to be amazed by, to respect.
As the summer went on, we came across lakes where a feast more wonderful than any Spago's incarnation would be had. One such lake farther west than you can imagine, and still in the highest of the high country, produced for Mr. X a 3 pound or more, 20 inch, well fed Rainbow with meat as red as any salmon. After ol' X caught his monster fish I continued casting and pulled in a 14 inch Golden. The day before, I caught a 15 inch, maybe 2 pound, Rainbow/Golden hybrid. The rice and mashed potato dinners took on quite a different dimension those nights.




WE WERE FISHING AND TALKING TO MARMOTS for 71 days, we most definitely lost our minds, moving camp slowly but surely northerly, with almost as many layover days as the short easy "moving" days. When not engrossed in an interrogation of a neighborhood marmot, or reeling in a fish better meant for scripture, we climbed peaks, walked ridges, rolled joints, went on geological "expeditions", circumnavigated lakes, and had fantastically disgusting, loud descriptions of mutilating our genitalia.
We become fascinated with the various possible uses for high fiber Psyillium Husk. "Psyillium AID!!!" or "Psyillium MEAL!!!" or "I used to be a loser, all the school kids picked on me, then one day I tried PSYILLIUM HUSK!!!" Yes we're crazy and might as well be locked up because none of you readers probably find any of this funny.

It happened quite often that a stoned walkabout would end up with a sunset view more beautiful, intense, serenly clear and pinkly lit than imagination can create. Most often these trips were made without cameras, so unfortunately those of you who were not out there don't get to see them from the comfort of your arm chairs.

Like when we were at Colby Lake on The Great Western Divide and went for an "evening stroll" up to the top of the steep knoll a hundred feet above camp. Topping out among twisted, gnarled, awesome fox tail pines we looked down on Cloud Canyon below us, and where it runs out to meet the Kings River Canyon in the distance. The sky lit up orange, pink, red, purple, the granite a quiet clear grey, and Mt. Goddard stood largely, far to the north...where we would end up in another oh 4 weeks or so. As we sat there, blown away to somewhere else, revelling in the soulful emptiness of the mountains, a coyote scampered up the slickrock. We turned in time to see it running along towards higher ground, it had seen us, it looked suprised.
The next day Huck and I went for an afternoon walk after a morning spent reading and jumping in the lake. We ended up on a ridgeline narrow and solid, constantly flowing onward, like a dream, lost in the movement. After awhile of scrambling I looked up and saw Huck, sitting Buddha-like on a high point, absorbing the view, upper Cloud Canyon visible--huge wide open slick rock recesses, one after another in a row leading out of the green meadows and lower forests of the canyon. Hand over hand, moving feet along, wedgeing them, smearing, counterpressure, really doing nothing, the ridge just moved under me while I stood still and soon I was up there with Huck and then beyond him, and looking back taking photos of this body sitting small among everything large on this perfect ridge. The ridge wouldn't stop, it kept going and soon I stood on its little finishing peak, dwarfed by more major crests and ridgelines, and I had to circle back down and around to camp just in time for dinner.


AS THE MONTHS PASSED we were greeted by clear blue skies day in and day out, a beautiful summer. The first day of September arrived with a different iternerary though, as we meandered among a string of lakes all surrounded by granite, among the folds of an alpine basin, clouds moved in overhead, and by noon, snowflakes were blowing thick out of the sky. We found the "stink-dome", in other words: our tent, in the blizzard and got inside, filling the hours of storm with reading, and listening to each other fart.

By dinner time things had cleared substantially, bringing in the wind and cold air, with Huck and Mr. X retreating to the stink-dome, I rolled out my bag in the night dark granite world and smoked bowls till I fell asleep. Sometime during the night I pulled my head inside the bag and became a body in a cacoon. Sunrise brought visions of Patagonia outside my bag, I opened my eyes and snow was still in the grass, the wind was gusting to 40 mph, and the temperature was in the 20s. Hello September, welcome new month.
The day cleared though, after a frigid breakfast we started walking. Up over a high pass I summited a peak for the fourth time in it's summit register history, then went on up to a higher bigger summit. The views of the Sierra from the snowy top were incredible. Mt. Goddard looked massive, everything was dusted in snow, no wind blew, puffy clouds filled the sky. Following Huck and Mr. X's route, I got to the outlet of the lake where we were camped just as the peaks were glowing pink, and the lake reflected the pink perfectly, and all of the day melted pink into the sea of eternity's dark mountain night. Another stressful day, eh?



THIS SUMMER WAS NOTHING but hanging in the hills, free like the wind is, high as the mountains are, among everything--like alpine grasses. Fitting in the cracks of it all, truly escaping any interogation from the "outside" world. We were inside the outside, standing and walking among stones--talus and slabs, peaks and walls--and the occaisional drop into a lush river valley; tigerlilies and paintbrush, monkey flower and larkspur, yarrow and lupin, ferns and joint grass; oh we were everything---all at once nothing---as the mountains walked through us.

So relaxed, like an afternoon hack session, like just another day, yes, we were so relaxed the world came to us. Over time it all becomes magic and beautiful, and cruising through new country, new scenes, finishing the trip in the Red Mountain Land of the Mammoth High Country, so far away from the foxtail Southern New Army Pass world we began in...standing on Mt.Gabb and seeing Mt. Whitney far far in the distance and knowing we started walking just south of there....two months and awhile before....oh it's a feeling alright. And there's nothing badass about it, nothing awesome or extreme, it's living on the land, cooking MSG laden dinners, eating too many Snickers bars, catching spiritual fish, standing on mountain tops to get a look around, farting, smiling, laughing, not giving a damn about any accessory to pure living, using rocks to wipe your ass...that's what it really is.

Take all the fancy words, the frozen photos and forget 'em. It is Life--everyday living that we all know, in all its different personal forms removed of all the accesories except what truly keeps you breathing. Eating, sleeping, doing something.

The last morning it was windy, the first day it was warm and calm. That is the story of the trip. All is well.

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