To paraphrase, and with apologies to Abraham Lincoln, 16th President of these free United States of America….
“From whence shall we expect the approach of danger? Shall some trans-Atlantic military giant step the earth and
crush us at a blow? Never. All the armies of Europe and Asia...could not by
force take a drink from the Cottonwood River or make a track on the Mount
Langley in the trial of a thousand years. No, if destruction be our lot we must
ourselves be its author and finisher. As a nation of free men we will live
forever or die by suicide.”
Prologue:
Our band of hale and hearty fellows arrived at the Horseshoe Meadow trailhead when the morn was well past
nigh on 27 August, 2015 AD for what we anticipated to be a leisurely trek to
our intended encampment along the shores of tranquil Long Lake.
Unbeknownst to us at that time, trials and tribulations lurked ‘round every bend of the dusty trail;
challenges that would test our very mettle and make us question our sanity.
Today we march—tomorrow we ascend to the Gods!
For tomorrow we attempt our summit of Mount Langley!
It was a fine sun-kissed day that greeted us as we strapped on our rucksacks packed with provisions and
necessities and joined in the fellowship of the trail on a glorious saunter through the high Sierra.
Our assemblage of sturdy men was all in fine fettle, in the pink if you will, as we put our shoulders into our haversacks
and headed down the well-trod trail.
I felt as if the spirit of my old friend J.M. walked with me under the towering pines and through the countless fields of boulders.
Numerous squirrels, many undoubtedly carrying the Plague, crossed our path and scurried up primordial trees.
Our merry group had spent the previous four days in the Yosemite country, paying homage to those Granite
Fathers and soaking up everything that that celebrated and holy land of rock and sky grants the humble man seeking a communion with the great out-of-doors.
Oh our collective breast was full of vim and vigor and goodwill towards all of God’s creation!
Please allow me to introduce my faithful and hale companions and myself; let’s meet the chuckaboos!
Our group of fine stout fellows is led by one Timothy John Mulhern, or “Tim” as he is affectionately
known. As a classically trained forester, Tim really knows his onions. His knowledge of international flora and
fauna would be put to a stern test during our assault on Mount Langley.
A quiet, serious man, fond of a stout brew, thick sleeping mattresses and voluminous inflatable pillows,
Tim is a worthy and proper leader of our small but tenacious band of brothers (in the background of this photo one catches a glimpse of William “Billy” Braun, aka Mr. Sunshine—more on him soon. Very soon).
The second member of our league of perambulatory lads, the strapping son of Tim, is one Ryan Timothy Mulhern, better know as “Ry.”
A former Marine, and current US Forest Service fire fighter, Ry takes no quarter, backing down from no man, mountain, nor
beast.
I’ve witnessed him facing off with an angry Grizzly sow with nothing more than a twinkle in his eye and a
sharpened toothbrush. An eternal optimist comfortable with traipsing for miles upon miles, he is quick with a smile or to offer you a frosty glass of bitter hops. Cheers, Ry!
On this peregrination we were honored to have along retired firefighter and all around man about town
William Braun, aka “Mister Sunshine.” A true “son of the mountains,” ol’ Billy has forfeited much shoe leather in these
High Sierra peaks.
Ever quick with a discouraging word or sarcastic remark, Mr. Sunshine is a joy to spend time with
on the trail, and in my experience is not a difficult fellow to put some distance on should you desire some distance and time away from his nebulous countenance.
But it is around camp that Bill truly shines, ever ready to show off a new fangled gadget, share a clever
quip, or tell a confusing story that seemingly has no point or satisfactory ending. Mr. Sunshine, you truly light our way!
Finally, I present your humble scribe and recorder of these events, that is to say, me—J.M. Jelak from
parts unknown. You may call me “J.M.” or “Jimmer”—just don’t call me late for
supper!
I have captured a photographic record of our journey and will share more of those images with you
in short order; as well as put words to paper to record our peregrinations up and down this glorious high Sierra landscape.
Enough of the introductions. Our boots were sewn to produce dust upon the trail. Tis time to lay tracks and
make haste down the trail. For upon the morrow we summit Langley!
#
Please allow this trip report to serve as a “How To Guide” to those of you tenderfoots unfamiliar with the trail to Mount Langley.
I will do my best to provide an entertaining and informative discourse highlighting key landmarks and points of interest one will encounter upon the trail.
But mere words and flat photographic images are poor substitutes indeed for actually being on the trail
and living the grand life of the high Sierra tramp, touring this glorious land yourself.
Go! Find your trail! Climb and soar and embrace your escalade towards the top of the World!
#
From the trailhead at the parking lot, the trail gently undulates and winds through open timber. It is a
most pleasant jaunt.
After a mere two miles of hiking we elected to break our fast alongside a most delightful little babbling
brook.
Oh! I could hardly find my appetite for the song that beat in my breast as my eyes gorged themselves on the deep beauty of the sub-alpine meadow!
However, I did discover said appetite long enough to consumer three tortillas slathered with thick peanut butter, four
handfuls of dried pineapple, one Clif Bar, and 5 pieces of Jolly Rancher hard candy.
Alas, we had tarried too long. Onward! Daylight burns! The siren call of Langley sings in our collective breast!
#
We settled into a comfortable rhythm on the thoroughfare. I allowed the music of the mountains to
pull me along. And, a steady diet of Jolly Ranchers brought joy to my taste buds—tis like having a party in ones mouth, and everybody is invited!
Jolly Ranchers. So jolly!
With our guts satiated and our spirits soaring we fairly flew over the rocky terrain. Tim regaled us
with a full botanical discourse on the interesting trees we were encountering along the trail.
This photo clearly shows us walking through a thick grove of timber that Tim identified as ancient elvish
trees, including some dating back as far as when the Ents called these very groves home!
“The board is set, the pieces are moving. We come to it at last, the great climb of our time!”
#
Further along our ramble, we came across evidence of the numerous atrocities of man's never ending onslaught against our Great Mother! For what folly modern man enforces on his silent brothers, the trees. Shall no great timber know not the terrible bite from the cruel teeth of the man saw?
Our reverie upon the great trail of dust and rock was soon shaken to its very core when our bricky crew
came across what proved to be a great torrent of water.
Surely this cataract was the resulting outburst of effusive melting of great snowfalls high above us in the cradle of the unreachable Sierra peaks. Old Sol, his heat and light an all too powerful blast, turning ice to water, and the subsequent cataclysm now found its way to lower elevations, threatening to end our journey before it began.
One false step and our weak manflesh would be hurled downstream, only to find purchase upon hard boulders and snag-filled pools; our lifeless bodies broken and desecrated.
Were it not for the steadying influence and guidance of Mr. Sunshine, along with his encouraging supportive cries of “It’s a f*$!%! log you guys! Just *&!#@! walk across it” I hardly think our merry band of intrepid fellows could have summoned the courage to cross the raging cascade and make our collective way to safety.
#
“I’ll never be your beast of
burden. My back is broad but it’s a
hurting”
-Jagger, Richards
I had assumed the lead on the trail, and was merrily making my way when up ahead I spotted a most
troubling site. For the foul spoor that filled my eyes and nose with filth and decay also filled my breast with ill temper and dread.
Oh what of the odoriferous beasts whom so thoughtlessly drop their leavings upon our wild trail assailing
all of our senses! What codswallop!
Further, what man prefers to ride upon such a flea-bitten diminished beast rather that take the trail upon
his own two feet as his great Creator has intended?
Yay, though I be required to bury my man-waste a full six inches below the soil’s surface, these sway backed
tick-ridden bags of horsehide are free to expel their stinky horseapples with impunity.
What for shall I do whence I come upon one of these wretched creatures? For I shall look him straight in his
cloudy rheumy eyes and declare him nothing but a bag of sad bones destined for the glue factory in Bakersfield!
That’ll make a stuffed bird laugh!
I am sad to report that it is at this juncture that I came down with a severe case of the morbs.
Shaken and somewhat concerned about what lay ahead of us, I slowed my pace and assumedmy previous place on the trail, occupying the final spot of our group, allowing my trail brethren to deal with whatever fetid scat or natural obstacle we may yet encounter.
#
Our predetermined route was, in our collective opinion, a bang up to the elephant plan. We selected as our
chosen path to ply our luck upon the rock of New Army Pass.
Old Army Pass is not fit for modern man—unmaintained and nearly impassable. Our friends at the National
Forest office made it quite clear that we should certainly make our way up ol’ Langley via New Army Pass.
Follow the sign…
The footfalls along the rocky trail play a cadence as we step…step….step…across and up the smooth and
jagged rocks. A primitive mountain dance, repeated thousands of times, as we silently march towards our destiny.
Yet soon our silent reverie was broken, as by perchance we were delighted to meet upon the trail a merry
contingent of four fellows who seemed completely up to snuff and wrapped tight,
as they say back home. They were in the process of hiking out and we gathered
like schoolchildren at their feet, breathlessly asking them for details of their great adventure!
Our lionhearted band was enchanted as their leader regaled us with his troupes’ experiences upon the
beaten track. No blatherskite, he; no bushwa to be found in his impassioned reports!
For you see, they had just the previous day successfully summited ol’ Langley! The joy and satisfaction
writ on their faces was as clear as a glass of moonshine on a Tennessee Sunday morning!
Oh what fine, robust men these new brothers of the trail proved to be! My breast swelled with pride at
making their acquaintance and spending but a few proud moments upon the Sierra
trail basking in their glow. Farewell, thy Brothers! Godspeed and hale regards to you and yours!
A second primitive sign portents your next turn as you make your way to the New Army Pass. Do not take a wrong turn or you will rue the day and run the risk of running into an outlaw band of Texans led by some half-wit renegade going by the name of “J.R.” Tales told of these rascals are not for the faint or gentle of heart. Be Fair Warned, Brothers! Keep to the right. KEEP TO THE RIGHT!
The vista upon which a weary traveler’s eyes gaze at this point in our labor is truly a blessed sight. For bejeweled lakes stretch to the horizon, framed by the rough and tumble outcropping of rock and shale, with venerable old Mount Langley rising above us all. All the air is music! How boundless the day!
Be still my beating hiking heart!
Lo! Langley calls!!!!!!
Egads. Not again! How far behind the behind of this insufferable beast of burden must I be? Using an old technique I lucubrated from my esteemed Biology Professor Richard Towhee Butterworth Johnsonville, I expertly and nimbly plunged my right index finger into the equine’s turd, counted to thirty, and whilst extracting my digit further counted until the temperature of said digit was identical to the surface temperature of the bridge of my nose.
Thus, I determined that this particular turd had been expelled via the accursed equine’s sphincter no more than 45 minutes prior. I was fast on the trail of the bag of bones! That bastardly burro had an appointment with destiny and had better be prepared to receive
a tongue lashing not seen in these parts since the Bridger party hosted their last supper!
A series of bejeweled alpine lakes are spread out in front of the inveterate hiker, open to all possibilities. This is a most welcome sight as well as a pleasant harbinger of things to come. For, our day’s journey is almost complete as we near our chosen encampment site!
#
As our day’s labor draws to a close our energy begins to wane, and cessation stops are more frequent. Provided here for your consideration is photographic evidence of Mr. Sunshine waxing poetic and cheering the hearts of our small band of brothers with pithy quotes and motivational messages designed to keep us trekking on.
In the shadow of boulder and broken rock, we make our encampment hard along the shores of Long Lake. Though my tabernacle may be wee, my will and spirit be great as I ponder what is about to reveal itself to us—the summit of Langley!
For tomorrow we make our summit assault up these very walls of stone and scree! Climb. Climb! Ascend to
the heavens and find purchase upon his chosen rock garden in the sky!
#
Too energized to rest and perhaps in an effort to put some distance between Mr. Sunshine and ourselves, Tim, Ry, and your humble scribe ascended the rocky scree and subalpine scrub to ply our lines for trout in the languid waters of High Lake.
High Lake. The name itself conjures pictures of pure wilderness adventure and hints at the mystery to be found deep in the clear green waters of this mountain jewel.
High Lake. How did mere mortal men ascribe such a descriptive and apropos name for this special place
that has certainly been kissed full on the lips by the Great Spirit himself?
High Lake. Sheer poetic description—gentle on the ears and lyrical upon the lips. The naming convention of these wonderful lakes boggles the mind. One is humbled by the great minds that gave birth to such descriptive monikers.
The Cottonwood Lakes. There are five. They are named 1,2,3,4, and … wait for it … 5.
In our immediate area there is Long Lake (it’s relatively Long), and of course the aforementioned
High Lake….which is the uppermost lake in the basin…and therefore, I guess, high.
Onward! Lines must be wet!
Fish must be hooked! Daylight is burning!
Our fishing crew of three split up to explore the boulder strewn shore of this little round puddle which appears to have been plunked down amidst a lunar landscape. I carefully cast my gaze as I cast my line, hoping to catch a glimpse of invading alien life.
I had no sooner ascended a large boulder some six feet from shore than my 6 weight fly outfit expertly delivered a #22 Parachute Adams to alit daintily and soundlessly upon the still calm surface.
Immediately, a terrible eruption shattered the still waters, and a wonderful fight was on! The State Fish of the Great State of California (golden trout, aka Oncorhynchus
aguabonita) had been fooled by my fake bit of fur and feather was firmly hooked, providing me with the fight of its young life. I coaxed the battling
Golden close to my boulder and eased him skyward into my waiting and grateful hand.
OMG. Aguabonita, indeed! A full palette of colors from the Creator’s Pantone book was on display in the palm of my hand. Colorful is but a black and white word on a page of white woefully inadequate as an effective means of describing the indescribable beauty and
color of this primitive and wonderfully adorned piscis.
After a few words of encouragement from me (“Don’t be so gullible. Be careful what you put in your mouth. However, you fought a gallant, if not futile, fight. I wish you well in your future endeavors. I’ll friend you on Facebook!”), I eased the hook out of the jaw of the ten-inch specimen of high alpine fishing excellence, and
released the gaudy Golden to fight another day.
Fare thee well, my fine-finned friend! Drink deeply of your cold mountain water! May your golden flank forever reflect God’s own light for all your days! Aye! You are the Golden One!
I love many things, fishing chief among them. For when I fish, I fish with the passion of a dog itching its face against the grain of a firm pile carpet.
#
Later that day, as darkness developed upon the landscape like a deep purple bruise slowly appearing upon a chaffed thigh…
Our venerable leader and general lodema, Tim, proffered to the group that we should awake the following morn at 0300 in order to begin our summit of Langley well afore dawn in order to see the Summit in all of it’s post dawn glory.
Ry immediately adjourned to his hammock to clean his gun, re-stock his stores and to get some much-needed shuteye.
Mr. Sunshine was apparently overjoyed at the prospect of arising at such an hour. Post haste and with nary an acknowledgement of Tim’s proclamation, he adjourned to his tent to ostensibly re-stock his daily rucksack and get some rest.
However, it was my observation through the thin fabric of his shelter that most of his labor was devoted to consuming mass quantities of Jolly Ranchers, shirtless, whilst in the prone position.
Later…
The almost full moon, bloated, as if it had been over-indulging in peanut butter tortillas and Clif Bars the past week, forced my eyelids open at straight up 0300. It was time to march!
We broke our fast with cool water and hard bread (old J.M. was smiling, somewhere) and shouldered our knapsacks for our adventure.
Today we summit Langley!
Alas, gentle reader; I have no photographic evidence of our assault up the terrifying and steep rock wall of New Army Pass. For the dark was pitch and the incline steep. My photographic equipment was consigned (for safety reasons. And, the fact that it was dark) to my haversack.
I will say that we made our way swiftly and silently, our head lanterns shining the way…up….up….up.
The New Army men and women have done a bang up job of cutting steps and clearing a path up this behemoth of a mountain.
I’m not sure what the issue is with the Old Army folks. Perhaps they’re just old or lack the technical skill of the New Army?
Upon making the crown, our group huddled in the dark and took refreshment from our water sacks, anxious to continue our way to the brooding dark hulk “out there” in the darkness: Mount Langley!
Soon, a rosy glow covered our world as we gazed upon the broken rock and scree below the still as unseen Langley summit. The photographic equipment re-emerged:
We paused often in the lean air to take liquid refreshment and to capture our breath in this foreign world so high above the level of the sea.
“Not in these fields, God’s wilds will you ever hear the sad moan of disappointment, ‘All is vanity.’ No, we are overpaid a thousand times for all our toil…”
Back on the trail and lo and behold take a gander at the spoor on our very path!
Fear not, gentle reader—for those dainty black nuggets of mountain gold were not discharged by dint of the loose malodorous sphincter of some sway-backed ninny whose sire was a jackass. No! For those pellets of heavenly providence were produced from the fine, white-patched behind of the Creator’s greatest denizen of these here mountains—the Bighorn Sheep!
And then, as if by dent of a holy intervention or as if springing from the descriptive notebook pages of J.M. himself, what should we see below us in the scattered rocks and sand some 400 yards in the distance but a bachelor group of five Bighorn Sheep cutting across the canyon floor!
How thrilling and awe-inspiring to see these great mountain beasts in their native habitat. Surely this is a most excellent omen as we ape up the steep Langley incline. Surely the summit will be ours before nigh!
Alas, the sheep continued on their way, butting heads and doing what sheep do. It was time for us bipeds to continue our trek towards our Langley destiny.
“Make haste, my beloved, and be like a young stag upon the mountains!”
Once you’ve gained the top of New Army Pass and have begun the gentle descent before your final climb to Langley begins, you have several options.
A well-worn trail cuts across your decline in a horizontal fashion, seemingly taking you away from your destination. This trail in fact connects with the sad path from the Old Army Pass, and turns sharply leading up the loose sand and scree towards Langley.
Or, one may simply pick a path down and up and keep his eyes firmly fixed above, towards that place where the summit surely lies.
Large boulders begin to make their appearance as one makes his way up the mountain’s approach.
The views are spectacular.
Depending on your choices, some hand over hand climbing may be required to take you ever summit-ward.
At this point in your journey your lungs may be crying in an eerie dirge of pain, firing off messages to your oxygen addled brain to …just…for the love of Yahweh ... just….stop.
And so, too, I encourage you to often stop…and survey your surroundings…and drink in these sky gardens…and appreciate all that elevation you’ve gained.
Gazing down to see the bejeweled lakes you not so long ago passed is a most satisfactory sight.
If you look closely you may spot my large rucksack hanging from a Bristlecone pine branch back at our Long Lake camp. This is fine country, indeed!
And as the stoic Cairns point the way in their muted, austere fashion, you know in your heart and soul that you are close. Langley is yours!
Nay, gentle reader; hear me now and believe me next week—Ol’ Langley has a wicked sense of humor and is something of a tease. His false summit is a well-known secret. You have more work to do, tenderfoot! Toil and effort is the currency you pay to reach the summit and to see the face of God!
For, tis this was easy every dewdropper currently breaking his fast at the Mount Whitney restaurant in beautiful downtown Lone Pine (the sausage gravy is.to.die.for!) would be dancing atop Mr. Langley instead of languidly lounging in a torpid haze in the aforementioned establishment.
#
Tis a slog up the loose rock and sand, to be sure. But before you know it, the incline levels out and the ground stiffens. You are indeed getting close now, pilgrim!
It was poetic justification that Mr. Sunshine should be the first of our crew to summit. He made quick work of securing the register, upon which our names and words SHALL LIVE IN HISTORY AND RESONATE IN THE BREASTS OF LIKE-MINDED MOUNTAINEERS FOREVER!
And it shall surprise nobody whom has read this report this far that Mr. Sunshine further proved his mettle and all around pleasant disposition when he offered to take my photographic device and capture forever the image of Ry, Tim, and your humble scribe
straddling the very peak of Mount Langley!
I humbly surveyed my surroundings. I looked….down.
Hola! I’m in a place called vertigo!
As Sir Edmund Hillary famously said: “It’s a long way to the top, if you want to rock and roll.” Indeed, Sir, indeed!
For no temple made by hands compares to Mount Langley.
The profound solitude and the feeling of exalted grandeur stirs in me the desire to make sermons in stones, storms, trees, flowers, and animals brimful of humanity.
“For upon the roof of the world this was the most sublime waterfall flood I ever saw—clouds, winds, rocks, waters, throbbing together as one”.
I was fairly bathed in beauty.
Here with bread and water I should be content.
I could think of no better bevy of men with whom I would desire to share the sky.
Prologue
And with that, gentle reader, I bid you a most fond adieu. I am happy to report that our return hike to gentler elevations was without incidence (absent Mr. Sunshine moving his bowels in a most…unusual place) and indeed we fairly floated down the mountain to break our encampment at Long Lake.
I hold near to my breast that we may again one day cross paths either via the printed word or hopefully
in the flesh upon the hard dusty trail.
Until that time, I remain,
J.M. Jelak, Esquire.
Several LOL moments. I really enjoyed reading this and I hope you'll be contributing more in the future. :-)
-Gordon
Thanks. I was channeling my inner John Muir and wanted to have some fun with it. Glad you enjoyed it.
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