BOOK 3: White Gold

Atop Bald Mountain’s 12,535-foot summit, I examined several a blistering cumulus cloud dragging its belly across Vulcan Mountain. We were positioned to beat it in a southbound race, but if any nearer clouds collided, their combined power might produce a double-strength thunderstorm. We could not afford to stop longer than it took to joke about Bald Mountain looking like Humpty Dumpty. Fleeing onward, we traversed around the mountain until one giant cairn commanded us to halt.

The view straight ahead looked viewed from a low-flying airplane. Our eyes wandered across mountains upon mountains crowding the whole southern horizon. Cutting jaggedly through them was a 5-mile length of elevated crest.

“Shaped like a lightning bolt,” I observed. “Apparently, Mother Nature has a dry sense of humor.”

Maps and guidebook pages stayed folded inside our pockets. There was no use in hoping for our trail to leave the crest because its aim was obvious. First, a zig eastward, to tag a minor peak. Then, one more zag and zig, before making a bee-line toward Monarch Pass. The finish line was a dense forest, promising safety to all hikers who could make it that far. SeeHawk and I needed to keep moving, but, shoot. How could we resist stopping to enjoy such a fantastic view?

I struggled to comprehend how many mountains I was seeing. More than the number of clouds in the sky? More than the number of lakes in Colorado? Viewed convexly, the mountains resembled muddy river chop. Viewed concavely, their dividing valleys formed an empty egg carton. We could flee downhill if lightning caught us but how far would we need to drop? The distances ahead were impossible to measure without any reference.  

Regardless, though, one thing was certain. We needed to photograph the view before we could keep going.

While SeeHawk got busy pulling out our camera, I located our tepid can of Pepsi and popped open its tab. It never occurred to me to worry about having carried it all morning. Next thing I knew, sugar-syrup was spraying me from my head to my sneakers.

SeeHawk continued obsessively tweaking the camera’s dials, while side-stepping through my intended circle of views.

Licking my arms clean, I noticed Vulcan Mountain’s headdress spreading into a menacing anvil shape. “Hurry!” I squealed.

SeeHawk always hated rushing art. “Should we just forget this photo and keep hiking?” he snapped.

 “No, but please don’t try for perfection,” I begged him.

“You’ll only waste film if I pick the wrong exposure,” he insisted. “The difference in light levels between facing the sun and turning your back will be several f-stops, even without clouds interfering.”

Vulcan Mountain’s monster was turning dangerously purple. Why, in the name of sanity, were we quibbling about camera settings?

“Here you go,” he finally announced.

I handed him our near-empty Pepsi and aimed the camera toward Glover Mountain.

Just that one peak, alone, could not fit inside my frame. I chopped off its shoulder…Snap…rotated the camera far enough to frame Taylor Mountain…Snap…caught some lower forest adjoining Chalk Creek Pass…Snap…and continued slowly rotating until the camera’s advance lever stuck. “Argh, we need new film!” I shrieked.

SeeHawk tore open his backpack.

I cranked the rewind lever.

Out came a small Ziploc baggie, sealed inside a large Ziploc baggie, smashed against maps stuffed into a zippered pouch, containing fresh film which came out of its canister, just when the rewind lever made a funny clicking sound.

“SeeHawk?” I whimpered.  “Is it possible for our film to have just broken? Could it still be developed, or will we lose all our pictures from the last few days?”

My partner calmly beckoned for the camera. Facing away from the sun, he pressed the camera against his ear like a thief reading a combination lock. Slowly pressuring its rewind lever, he waited to hear film breaking loose from its spool.

Vulcan Mountain’s monster was inching toward us. “Hurry,” I repeated. “Can’t that wait? I’d like to finish this shot before it’s too late.”

SeeHawk growled, “If you want me to save our pictures, Sunshine, it’s going to take time, so you might have to choose…”

“I can’t choose,” I stammered. “Please keep working…”

SeeHawk nodded toward his neglected Pepsi, saying, “Drink that to keep yourself occupied.”

I gritted my teeth and watched.

He dug through his backpack for a black garbage bag, which he fastened around his windbreaker jacket, in order to create a miniature darkroom. Mumbling absentmindedly, he methodically reported, “Got to pop it off the spool…got to rewind the film without touching it…”

Vulcan Mountain had relinquished its grip on the monster. Now it was a free-floating cumulonimbus cloud, slowly but surely drifting toward us. Were SeeHawk and I nuts? Realistically speaking, the crest ahead offered no reasonable escape. We were just going to need to buckle down and sprint. Although, to be fair, the monster still looked docile. It had not yet produced any lighting or thunder. By nutcase standards, I still had time to immortalize one of the CDT’s finest views.

Suddenly I wondered, “Why aren’t we seeing The Kids?”

Despite having gotten a late start, our overnight companions should have been visible somewhere atop the open crest. Surely they could not have reached Monarch Pass before we even circled Bald Mountain. 

SeeHawk was still fidgeting inside his makeshift darkroom, when he mumbled over his shoulder, “I’ve almost got our film wound into the canister…if only I can get the lid back on…”

Bursting with impatience, I stared at Bald Mountain’s cracked-egg summit. Was anything hidden behind it going to awaken my fear of heights?

“Okay, Chief Photo Officer,” SeeHawk finally announced. “Our pictures are safe. Better finish your panorama before we skedaddle.”

I gratefully snatched the camera, poked an eye into its viewfinder, and discovered that the skylight had completely changed. Fixing my first frame back on Glover Mountain, I watched the peak’s smooth yellow fur abruptly turn gray when a cloud covered the sun. Snap…Snap…my full circle of photographs ended when an incoming breeze tickled my nose with the fresh scent of rain. More surprising was having a second breeze tickle my nose from a different direction. Were two cumulonimbus clouds converging above the crest?

“Come on, SeeHawk, we’ve got to get out of here!”

SeeHawk was still packing up his darkroom, so he hollered over his shoulder, “Just start without me, Sunshine. I’ll catch up fast.”