morning at Island Lake

It was like waking up at the uppermost point of the world. I crawled out of the tent, tugging my hat down to cover my ears, slipping my socked feet into my boots, and arose to face a sky full of sunlight. Around me circled a horseshoe-shaped ridge of crumbling mountains; around me circled a horse-shoe shaped ridge of low hills that blocked the wind. As I climbed up the rocks, summiting the small hillside, I looked down over Island Lake. Its surface moved to and fro; small breezes pushed it this way and that so that ripples sometimes collided. The tiny waves reflected dots of light back at me; they glimmered as I watched.

During the night, the wind had whipped around us, causing the side of the tent to slap me repeatedly now and then. It was so loud you could hear it coming, rising. There were no leaves up here for it to rustle; it was not their shimmying that I heard; it was just the loud whisper of the wind itself. In the morning, it had subsided, but perched up high as I was now, I could see it move on the water, and I could hear it coming and going, zinging around the basin in which I and this lake were seated. Now and then a bird chirped. A yellow jacket buzzed in its arrival, then disappeared. Otherwise, it was just the wind, the water, and myself observing the start of this day.

As the sun broadened its reach across the mountains, I studied their bodies. Mostly gray, with a section of red on the far left end, their crests looked like they might crumble into pieces at any moment. Scree and boulders covered all surfaces. Even the smoother areas were lacerated, as though Picasso had had a hand in designing them. Here and there, a ribbon of quartz glowed in the midst of the hard granite. These were uninviting walls for hiking; but they were elegant for surroundings.

Much of our hike up to Island Lake had trekked us over smoother faces of the granite—pillowy stretches of hard stone, curved in places, pock-marked in others, deeply grooved and chasm'd in some stretches. We had gotten off the trail, following cairns that proved to be more decorative than directional, and ascended to greater heights than necessary to reach the chain of three lakes that was our destination. As we made our way over the crest of rock beyond which we knew we'd see water, we headed downward into the basin, finding the creek we should have walked alongside much of the way. It was a beautiful sight, that slow trickling of water amidst solid granite—moistening the surface without drenching it, moistening my dry throat. I had not wanted to drink all the water I carried until I saw the blue confirmation of more lying ahead.

When we reached Twin Lakes, we found a small peninsula and dropped our packs. My back was aching; I lay on the rock and stretched it flat. I dipped my fingers in the water. I removed my boots. What a way to take a break.

Soon we moved deeper into the basin at the back of which Molly promised our lake to be waiting. I couldn't see it from even this distance—couldn't see where it must be, where I knew it to be. But soon enough we circled past Boomerang Lake; we trudged down thin paths that eked a way through bushes of Indian paintbrush; we crossed a narrow stone bridge; and then we'd reached it, the long strip of glacial water called Island Lake.

In the morning, studying its layout, I figured it got its name from the small spurts of rock that stretched into the water or surfaced in the midst of it. On each one grew lush beds of tall grass, which beckoned for me to take my socks off and walk through them with bare feet. On each one grew pink tufts of mountain heather. On some stood the thick body of a pine tree, massive in opposition to its short arms and stubby needles, half barren but half thriving, diligently withstanding the regular rushes of mountain air, the chill of the water that its roots drank from, the intensity of the sun that beat down on it.

When we arrived we had gone swimming. We had immersed our selves to our knees—then hesitated. We had immersed ourselves to our waists—then hesitated. Finally we submerged ourselves completely, losing our breath a little, losing control of our heart beats momentarily. The chill was overpowering, but it was worth it. In the morning, seated above those same frigid waters, I could not wait to get back in.

After breakfast we did swim again, the temperature seeming slightly less dreadful in the lulls between gusts of wind. We swam and we awoke; we tidied the space in which we had sprawled our belongings; we said a silent thank you to the place for being so hospitable. Then we headed toward home, descending the mountain just as indirectly as we'd climbed it, building up blisters and bruises as we trudged across sheer faces of stone to find the trail once again. Molly has a nose for directions, so I never felt lost; I enjoyed the adventure of feeling our way out; and I appreciated that at the end of the excursion, the shores of Wright's Lake opened up a spot for a picnic and one final swim before we returned to civilization.