What is it about this place that is so enrapturing, yet why do I seem to run out of words to describe how I feel when I am amidst it?
In awe of the Eastern Sierra
When I take friends to remote places, they often wonder about the local inhabitants—their livelihoods or whether they get bored, lonely, or disconnected. They dread the car breaking down and having no help immediately at hand. Instead I marvel at the light, the cast of colors, and the interplay of shadows, all of which seem to soften a landscape that advertises harshness yet belies a well-deserved richness. I am awed by the power of space and distance. I cannot deny the fear that is instilled in me, not by the prospect of breaking down or from isolation, but by the sheer breadth of landscape, both horizontal and vertical. I am humbled by the magnitude of naked earth and its communion with the wide-open sky.
Fourteen years after my first visit to the Eastern Sierra, I am still in love with it. The passage of time and the unfolding of various painful and joyful moments of my life have not diminished my fascination for this region, which by now has surely taken a permanent hold on my affections. What is it about this place that is so enrapturing, yet why do I seem to run out of words to describe how I feel when I am amidst it?
Nineteen-ninety marked the moment of my first solo car trip that was considerably far from home. It was intended to be a four-day weekend but was extended by another day. I had planned my stopovers on a drive that went progressively south up to a point that I would have considered climactic. My understanding was that the mountains got higher as one drove south, culminating in the highest point in the lower 48 states, Mount Whitney. I intended this trip to validate my personal independence and to cast away doubts of emotional dependency on friends and people who had knowledge of this area from experience. The notion of back-of-beyond of the Sierra Nevada was irresistible. I had not been aware of the eastern quarter of California for almost a decade since my arrival to the state as an immigrant. This was truly a frontier both geographical and personal.
Wherever I went the legendary light was my companion, my guide, and my comfort. Just when a summer storm seemed never to abate, the sky opened up and revealed the towering peaks guarding the living sanctuary that was Mono Lake. Peak after peak, one lake after another, a trail here and there, one type of vegetation after another, the panoply of landforms—it was sensory overload at its finest! I listened to the landscape and its invitation for a short hike and was drawn by its photographic allure. Not one moment was wasted for an enjoyable analysis of a newly discovered vacationland. This was only possible for a trip that I myself could organize and execute. Indeed it was a defining moment of my capacity for exploration.
Mounts Dana and Gibbs tower over Mono Lake as storm clouds clear
Perhaps nothing can rival the sight of an unbroken chain of mountain peaks that scrape the blue sky of eternity, whether in April, when the abundant snow softens the skyline, or in September, when rock against sky makes for a dramatic contrast. What a pleasant surprise to see the Range of Light unfold beneath lower and humbler mountains as my partner Rich and I slowly approached the kingdom from Nevada in April of 2000. The sweep of the landscape as Long Valley yields to Owens Valley, flanked by the even more rugged southern Sierra, the White Mountains and the Inyo Range has become so familiar, yet ever still magical! The sheer verticality of Lone Pine Peak and the Whitney Range over the Alabama Hills and Lone Pine—such whimsical canvas of gray-white, sky blue, reddish-brown, and various shades of green—never fails to cast its spell on me! On a much smaller scale, there is always the welcome invitation from the quivering aspens in colors ranging from muted but refreshing greens in the summer to flashy and jubilant yellows in the autumn. The reliable California sunshine tempers the cool crisp mountain air, and its reflection off the granite walls and surfaces is pure resplendence.
Soon I am to leave the kingdom of the Sierra again, but before the final disappearance, I look back and wonder at its dominating presence for several miles. When the sight of the mountains retreat from distance, from darkness, and from immediate memory, powerful impressions remain. I am in tune with the language of these great mountains. The Sierra speaks a language and plays a music that is universal. This is the language and music of the earth. A language and music that need not be respoken and replayed, for it is simple. It merely calls for respect for the earth, the prime giver of life and all its diversity. The Sierra is the living embodiment of Mother Earth.
For the rest of my life, I will comfort my worries, my fears, and my anxieties with the knowledge and awareness of the wonders of the Sierra. My failed attempt to set foot on the summit of Mt. Whitney in the late summer of this year has not diminished my awe and respect for this mountain and all the mountains above which it rules. I would want to visit the Sierra again to recommune with this important source of my emotional and spiritual consolation. It is with my connection to this beautiful manifestation of creation that I seal my ties to my origin as well as my ultimate destiny.
-Luis Fernández, 2004