Francis Lake

All day I've faced a barren waste
Without the taste of water,
cool water
....
Dan, can ya see that big,
green tree?
Where the water's runnin' free
And it's waitin' there for me and you?
Cool, clear, water
Cool, clear, water
A song sung by Marty Robbins


When the drinking tube
leading deep into the pack
went gurgle-gurgle like a
straw in an empty milkshake
glass, my spirits crumbled.
I blew into tube. Silence. All
100 ounces of water gone.
Well, darn.
I lifted the Brunton Wind
device from the camera bag
and checked the time: 3:47
p.m.
Alas, hours to go before I
could rest at Francis Lake.
And I'd already trudged six
hours from the trail head at
the Lostine River.
``No going back,'' I
mumbled and lumbered
along, up a dusty switchback,
step after endless step.
The bulging Dana Design
Longbed (1999) backpack,
with a ponderous camera bag
at my chest suspended by
straps ingeniously attached to
the pack's frame, grew
heavier by the step.
A wizened Humphrey
Bogart bone bag, with sunken
eyes and cracked lips,
stumbling across the desert
sands came to mind.
I licked my lips.
Shucks. I had expected 100
ounces of water to suffice.
Never mind the load, the
nearly 90-degree temperature
and the endless trail.
Besides there was a stream
at five miles.
Of course.
Well, nary a trickle
dampened the rocky
stream bed. So there.
Bearing a two-ton pack, I
usually hit a brisk mile-an-
hour uphill pace, with pauses
for photos and to gawk.
At my last sip, I'd walked
six hours (9:24 a.m. to 3:47
p.m.), or six miles.
So, three miles left, and
three hours, unless I
succumbed to dehydration.
Some fun, right.
I walked slow and paused
often. I snapped a few photos
of the massive 8,921-foot
Marble Point that loomed
over the trail.
At the pass, I turned onto a
faint path and the cool, clear
water of Francis Lake
glistened far below.
The path lead across the
rim and down the canyon
wall. I took it and soon inched
across treacherous scree with
fearful drop offs and worried
that, befuddled, I'd made a
bad decision.
I regrouped, however, and
took careful steps, assisted by
my bamboo walking stick.
I merged with the main trail
halfway down the wall and
reached a flat grassy spot 400
yards from the lake at 6:34
p.m., just shy of three hours
from my last drink and nine
hours from the trail head.
Licking dry lips I shed the
cameras and pack for the first
time in nine hours.
I slipped the limp water bag
from the pack and, at a
freshet bubbling toward the
lake, I pumped water into it
with the Sweetwater purifying
pump .
I tried not to drink too fast,
and I failed.
Although I sipped water
and nibbled trail mix with
raisins, peanuts, almonds,
cashews and M&Ms, my tail
dragged as I pitched the tent.
Reluctantly, I cooked
mashed potatoes, toasted an
English muffin in olive oil and
sipped hot chocolate.
I finished the hot chocolate
and the muffin, but not the
potatoes. I dumped them into
a plastic bag to pack out.
A darkness fell, I sat in the
tent's door and pulled up my
knees to remove my boots.
Ouch. Both thighs throbbed
with cramps. Biting back
several epithets, I struggled to
my feet.
The cramps subsided, but
they had my attention. I lay
with my legs straight until I
fell asleep (in 20 seconds).
Then cramps woke me twice,
and I rubbed them out.
I dressed at dawn to
photograph the scorched
9,673-foot Twin Peaks to the
north and the lake
surrounded by granite walls
to the east.
I ate granola and drank hot
chocolate. I felt tired, but my
legs felt OK. So, I set off to
explore around the lake at
6:17 a.m.
I saw four guys leave and
found myself alone _ except
a Western toad _ at the lake.
Feeling flat, I returned to
camp. I pulled my clothes-bag
pillow from the tent and
stretched out in the shade of a
whitebark pine.
I awoke swathed in sunlight
at 10:42 p.m. and felt better. I
ate hash browns O'Brien and
two muffins fried in olive oil.
I toured the lake again, and
the ponds below it.
As evening approached and
fish-feeding circles marred
the ponds, I unpacked the
four-piece fly rod. I caught
and released four small trout
in an hour.
I ate a Mountain House
Grilled Chicken Breast and
Mashed Potatoes dinner for
two and two English muffins
fried in Olive Oil.
I zonked until 4:32 a.m.
I ate granola again, filled
the water bag to the brim,
packed up and headed up the
trail at 5:48 a.m.
I paused several times to
take in singular views and
crossed the pass at 7:08 a.m.
I counted 22 switchbacks
down the mountain to the
trail head.
I also counted five
hummingbirds that hovered
at the red bandanna keeping
my hat from blowing away.
I picked out Chimney Lake
across the Lostine, watched
one small black ant lug a
winged bug five times its size
along the trail, watched two
large ants tug at opposites
ends of a green inch-worm
and watched a peregrine
falcon battle the wind for a
perch on a snag.
I reached the trail head at
1:09 p.m with an empty
water bag.
But I can learn. Next time I
visit Francis Lake in July
maybe I'll carry two bags of
water. Maybe.