PHOTOS BY RICK SANGER
was still grieving, not for Randy, but for this
place. He needed the summit more than any
of us that day. He needed to know that he
could be himself without being a ranger. Was
that the lesson Randy was grappling with
when he died?
We took it slow back to our tents, pausing
at benches peppered with obsidian flakes,
wrapping around Wales Lake, and skirt-
ing a mountain meadow. A few hours later,
in camp, I was getting water when some
dark, slender clouds appeared on the cragg y
skyline rimming our basin. The edge of the
storm reached over t he ridgeline li ke a climb-
er’s fingers groping for a hold. And then in an
instant, it leapt over and was upon us. I was
spellbound by how swiftly the glassy waters
of the lake were whipped into an angry sea
of whitecaps and by how completely Mts.
Russell, Morgenson, and Whitney dissolved
into the swirling darkness. After only five
minutes, sheets of rain and hail drove the
five of us into our tents. Thunder rumbled
and when lightning f lashed, illuminating
the inside of the tent, I began to count. Seven
Mississippis later: boom!
After 20 minutes and another four or five
lightning stri kes, I wa s ly ing atop my a ir mat-
tress when I felt an odd sensation beneath
me. Lightning f lashed again. One thousand
one, one thousand two, one thousand three
... boom! The ground shook and I turned my
head in time to see my empty water bottle as
it disappeared under the rain f lap, drifting
away. Then it struck me: I was f loating. Well , I
thought to myself, this is embarrassing.
I’d pitched my tent in a f lat spot that
seemed perfectly angled to drain away any
afternoon showers, but I hadn’t anticipated
the Biblica l proportions of this tempest. The
door of my tent faced away from the others,
and the storm was so loud and violent, there
was no point calling out to see how they were
faring. Sitting up, I pulled my knees to my
chest a nd draped my sleeping bag a round my
neck like a boa a s lightning f la shed aga in.
The storm raged for more than an hour,
then the pounding rain and hail suddenly
stopped. It was replaced by a soft, shimmery
sprinkle on the tent walls. Snow.
As lightning continued to touch down
around us, I pulled out the sheet of paper I’d
meant to read on the summit. In the com-
fort of my office a week earlier, I’d chosen
excerpts from Randy’s writings, and one
was especially appropriate considering
my sleeping pad was doubling as a f lota-
tion device. Randy had always felt the most
content when nature was at its wildest.
I don’t wish man in control of the universe, h e ’d
written in 1971 while atop Mt. Solomons. I
wish nature in control, and man playing only
just a role as one of its inhabitants. I wantevery blade of grass standing naturally, as it
was when pushed through the soil with spring
vigor. I want the stones and gravel left in the
autumn as spring meltwater left them. Only
these natural places, apart from my tracks,
give me joy, exhilaration, understanding.
W hat humanity I have has come from my
relations with these mountains.
Then it wa s over.
I climbed out of the tent and looked
a round, awestr uck. The ba sin wa s covered in
white, the sky was clear and, unexpectedly,
so was my head. It was a vision so stunning, I
could feel it in my core.
The others joined me, bailing water from
their tents as they emerged. More than a
century’s worth of Sierra wilderness expe-
rience between us, and we’d all been caught
off guard by the sheer depth of water that
f looded what had seemed to be a sufficiently
elevated camp. Rick, who had pitched his
tent directly on granite, fared the best and
hooted aloud, “ Whoooo! What a storm!”
He was clearly in his element, and it no
longer seemed like being in the mountains
reminded him that he soon wouldn’t be.
Lowering his voice, he said to me, “You know
what? I think I’m going to be OK .”
W hile John watched the water dra in away
from his tent, my gaze was drawn towa rd Mt.
Morgenson. It was shining with a soft, pink
alpenglow that ignited into a fiery red as I
watched. I sighed, maybe more loudly than
intended, and realized John was there beside
me. He gave me a pat on the back.
Earlier, I’d asked the others how the top
had been, and they had kindly avoided gush-
ing over the view. John summed it up with
a hand on my shoulder and a bit of wisdom
ever y ra nger, a nd ever y hiker, should lea rn to
live by. “It’s pretty special, but it’s not going
anywhere,” he said. “Another time.”Eric Blehm is the author of The Last
Season, which tells the full of story
of Randy Morgenson’s life and
disappearance, and which won a National
Outdoor Book Award. An excerpt
appeared in the 2006 May and June
issues of BACKPACKER (read it here:
backpacker.com/thelastseason).Ranger Confidential
A f ter nea rly t wo decades a s a
backcountr y ra nger in the Sierra , R ick
Sanger couldn’t bear the thought of a
summer without endless mountains,
lakes, and stars. He wondered: Did he
need wilderness more than he needed his
family? Read his story about the hardest
challenge rangers face at backpacker
.com/rangerconfidential.SPONSORED CONTENTTrail by Design
Presents:
Christopher Warren
backpacker.com/trailbydesign
@beatnikprints | Beatnikprints.com
The needles are probably one of
the most complex landscapes on the
planet, with their fractal nature
providing endless exploration.
And then smack dab in the middle
of that complexity is a fl at park,
a blank canvas, surrounded by
guardian hoodoos.It gives you the space to truly
refl ect on the complex landscape
surrounding you. It gives your
mind a blank surface to imagine
anything you want. The abrupt
change in landscape made me want to
experience it from above, like a
desert raven. From there I started
exploring topographic maps as a
form of art, in 2D and 3D.This image pays tribute to the
hike that began this leg of
my artistic journey.”I took a hike through
Chestler Park in the
Needles district of
Canyonlands National Park.VOTE FOR CHRISTOPHER:
“