Alpine was love at first sight

I believe in love at first sight and know it is real, because it has happened to me. What is perhaps different is that this connection is with the land, not a person. I have found parts of our world so wondrous and compelling that they took my breath away the first time I laid my eyes on them. I knew immediately I belonged there.

The high passes of Carson, Luther, Ebbetts, and Monitor are the arteries of Alpine County. It was a special spot off Luther that first spoke to me. The veil was lifted, and I saw the true essence of this rugged and remote place. It was fortunate that in my early years here in particular, I was able to spend precious hours getting to know each distinct part of the meadows, sage fields, forests, valleys, and mountain tops.

The area of Alpine County is somewhat civilization resistant. Advocates of society and culture have always tried to strong-arm what is untamed. They have succeeded in many cases but will never be the dominant factor. The geology itself is unencumbered by rules, mandates, and concepts of the human psyche. Parts of Alpine are still “as wild as wild can be.” When I die, I am thankful I will be buried in it’s soft sweet loam, for I love it like no other.

And always, whatever horrible things men may do to this wilderness, whether it is sending sewage over a pristine mountain pass, or blowing up a sacred rock with dynamite, it does not transmute the actual character of the countryside itself. The wounds are created, and the patient endurance of that section to restructure itself only deepens the respect I feel for its integrity. It is powerful, healing itself if it is possible. Mostly it has not been, but the rains come, and the snows fall, and the entire territory adapts and responds to those changes, redefining the topography.

The last fire in particular, scorched the skin, leaving scars that will never truly go away. As humans, we scramble to help it rejuvenate, cutting down the standing dead. The acres of stumps across the landscape do not alter my unconditional love. Rather, they are like the stubble on a handsome man’s face: yet another feature that defines character.

Alpine has had many communities, archeological and historic sites, mines, highways, and trails throughout it’s history. I am not talking about any of these, nor of any of the people, but rather the actual earth within its modern day borders. The location of my birth prepared me to appreciate lonely windswept hills and raging rivers. There was nothing I was more grateful for than wandering through the most remote and secret alcoves, and it still holds true. This background has served me well. Climbing through the outcroppings of the granite batholith is like being in my own huge, naturally created sculpture garden.

There were dalliances before I committed to what is now known as the least populated county in California. But the home I have chosen is not jealous, knowing that in every way I have preferred it above all others, and forever. I have spent the majority of my life here, and here is where I want to be. I was in love once, with Star Peak, outside of Imlay, Nev., but in the end, I chose Alpine.

In the physical world, nothing brings me more joy than simply being out in the uninhabited wildlands. It is easy to open the door to the spiritual world, letting the divine nature of creation shine through.

I never tire of looking into the eyes of these peaks. Each day the light paints them in a different way, revealing aspects that, even after such a long while, I find new and exciting. The mountains are so lofty, they look like giants that have laid dead and sleeping, their bodies covered with dust from a millennia, with reawakened growth germinating from their very skeletons.

Woodfords Canyon speaks to me in soft whispers and loud, violent windstorms both. Each defines its essential character. The aroma of the soil, not just after a rain, but in the heat of the intense summer sun is intoxicating. Being immersed in the unique fragrance emitted by an aspen grove on Monitor Pass, or savoring the vanilla sweetness of the Jeffrey pine are two small examples of the sensory experiences that draw me further into love and deepen my attachment.

The trees are very forgiving. The cedars raise their branches like the wings of an angel, silently blessing you. They don’t care what mistakes or bad choices you have made. They hold their backs to the wind, letting it bear down on them until their dancing shape is transformed. Confidants and saviors, they do not judge. Whether your bark is that of aspen or cottonwood, alder or fir, they will sink their roots next to you. They will not relinquish any ground. This is where they stand. Their query is whether you are with them or not. I have chosen to be with them.

It has been a generation: 40 years for me here in the wilderness, teaching me hard lessons on the necessity of having true faith and trust in the Creator. Intense experiences, stark needs, harsh dangers, and divine deliverance have all been part of the continual renewal and communion here. The Sierra Nevada has never been a region known for “easy living.” It has been a period of testing and trials, enhanced by both tribulations and revelations. In these woods, you are already in the presence of parts of the heavenly spheres which can occasionally become visible, but only if you pay attention.

I have inherited a deep sorrow over what it has suffered at the hands of those unappreciative of its true riches. It is not simply the majestic summits and rocky ravines, but the pebbles on the side of a stream and the small cones of the lodgepole. There exist such wonders. The small and simple have the potential to embody and enchant our whole being. In the end, it is in the most unassuming occurrences that can hold the seeds of the most incredible stories of all.

The deep taste of currants, rose-hips, and chokecherries warmed by the sun and fresh off the branch is provocative. Along with the sweetness of manzanita blossom tea, truly, what more could one ask? The only answer to that is “time.” The hours to be with my beloved are what I miss the most. People may betray me, but the rural countryside itself never has. I have survived through flood and fire, blizzards, heatwaves, and unexpected catastrophes right along with it. I will not make it through these forever, but in some form, this land will, and it shall remain.