In A Lonely Place, High On An Empty Mountain

There is a small stone hut sitting on top of a mountain in the high
reaches of the Sierra Nevada; a hut made from native rock quarried by
hand from the mountain sides and carried through the passes and
canyons where no trees grow; in the thin air far above the tree line
where the pines, firs, and cedars so common in most other parts of the
Sierra can no longer take root and flourish or even survive; a rock
enclosure shaped like a Sherpa’s hat; a hut with no amenities other
than a small stone fireplace which might just barely manage to ward
off the effects of the freezing winds of the High Sierra – it might
manage, that is, if there was any wood nearby with which to feed the
tiny flames one might just possibly be able to coax into life. But
this hut is far above and miles away from where any firewood could be
found and gathered, and once found the wood needed would then have to
be carried for many miles along a rocky trail and thousands of feet up
in elevation to finally get it to the threshold of the cold hearth of
this fireplace; carried by hand, or on one’s back. The hut is roomy
enough to comfortably house a small group of people for a brief period
of time. In fact it would be better if the traveler who comes upon it
were indeed part of such a group, for the collective body heat of
several friends would easily generate more warmth than the tiny fire
which might happen to flicker into life here. Yet those hopeful flames
must be guarded well, for the mortar holding the stones in place
within the walls has crumbled into a fine dust in many places between
those rocks, and that dust whips about the dark interior of the hut as
the high mountain wind blows through the cracks, sending particles of
pulverized rock into your nose, your mouth, your eyes and lungs; while
at the same time making the tiny fingers of your young fire dance and
bend to its unpredictable whim. There is, of course, no light in this
hut once you have closed the door to keep out the freezing chill, and
there won’t be unless you have brought a source of light with you. The
glow from your new fire barely casts a shadow far enough for you to
see the few extra pieces of wood you have stacked nearby in the
hopeful yet unrealistic expectation of a warm night. One’s first
thought might be to wrap an old rag around a stout piece of wood and
dip it into the flames to make a torch, as this would instinctually
fit with the somewhat medieval atmosphere of desolate rock and looming
danger in which you now find yourself. But stout pieces of wood are
far too heavy to carry all this way along the trail and what you have
already just barely managed to haul up this mountain might more
laughably and generously be classified as merely sticks. As you are by
now wearing every piece of clothing you have brought with you up this
trail of stone, there are no bits of cloth to spare for such fanciful
things as torches. So, the murky medieval mood of the oncoming night
notwithstanding, the option of chasing away the dark with a brave
flame from a smoking torch is probably not going to come to fruition.
As your eyes have adjusted to the gloom you can now see that there’s a
bit of light coming through the cracks in the walls along with the
wind. In fact, if you let your gaze drift upward to the conical stone
ceiling you can see the dim fading light of the evening reaching in
from up there as well, and the thought passes through your mind that
perhaps this stone cottage which appeared so firm on the outside just
might not be as stout as it seemed upon first sight; that just maybe
your haste for shelter from the wind and the dark might have clouded
your judgment; that you might well be better off taking your chances
outside with the elemental furies of nature. So you open the door
again as you consider the possible benefits of leaving and feel the
blast of the icy wind as it finds every small opening in your clothing
and instantly freezes the skin beneath. No, leaving this place is not
an option which a reasonable traveler should consider. So with the
door firmly closed once again and with a reluctant mental nod toward
the Lesser of Two Evils you fumble through your pack and find your
lantern, turning the adjustment knob up a bit so that the flame won’t
die immediately after birth, then lighting it with a match from the
small box still lying on the hearth after your somewhat questionable
success with the fireplace. But, unlike your earlier effort, the flame
on the lamp roars into life and floods you with relief, and the glow
that spreads from it throughout the hut does more to warm your spirits
than the fireplace has so far managed. You raise the lamp and look
around. There, off to one side, is unquestionably an attempt to
fashion some seating out of the native stone. With relief you move
over and sit down to take the weight off your tired feet, but the cold
quickly penetrates through your layers of clothing to chill your butt
and legs more effectively than even the icy wind outside. So you stand
again, holding the lamp high and turning slowly as your gaze revolves
about the room to examine this lonely shelter which you have
unexpectedly stumbled upon. But there’s nothing here to examine; no
tables or chairs; no cot or stove; no cupboard full of food or cistern
full of water - of course there’s no water, for water in this part of
the Sierra is as nonexistent as that firewood which cost so much
labor.  So you set your glowing lantern down on the stone hearth and
again rummage through your pack, finding things you know are there
through the way they feel on your fingers and pulling them one by one
out from the dark recesses of your pack to line them up on the hearth
next to the lamp. Your stove is first; a small cylinder of gas with a
burner atop and a holder for your mug. The mug comes out next. Then
comes your packet of coffee. You reach to the side and unfasten the
bottle of water, filling the cup with it from one hand while you pour
the coffee grounds out with the other. Setting these two ingredients
down you light the stove, take the cup in one hand and swirl the
contents, then set the cup over the burner for what you hope will be a
quick heat to a boil. And it probably is a quick heat, but it seems
like an eternity to you. Every few seconds you pick the cup up and
swirl it some more because even with the glow from the lamp you can’t
really tell in the shadows which surround you if the coffee is
dissolving into the water. Your nose gives you the first clue that
this has happened as the comforting aroma of hot coffee begins to fill
the hut despite the constant wind which tries its best to steal the
scent from your hovering nostrils. And when you first begin to see the
tiny bubbles start to rise and pop you know that your coffee is
finally ready. You turn down the flame and pick up the cup by the
handle, then tentatively wrap the fingers of both hands around it to
suck the heat from it into your body before that thief-of-a-wind
manages to snatch it away. The coffee, when you finally put the cup to
your lips and let a few drops trickle in, is by far the finest you’ve
ever tasted, and you can’t help but smile happily as you sit alone
there in the flickering darkness. The rest of the coffee goes down
quickly and while it is still hot, warming at least that part of you
between mouth and stomach with its actual heat and at the same time
warming the rest of your body with the comfortable thought that you
have managed to make a fire, generate some light, and boil a hot drink
in the midst of being caught in an unexpected Sierra storm. Moving
quickly now, before that warmth fades away, you unroll your pad and
sleeping bag next to the hearth and, turning off your lamp, crawl in
to pass the night. As the wind howls through the cracks in the walls
and the dust from the mortar blows around you and you listen to what
your imagination tells you must be the fiercest storm in Sierra
history raging to a crescendo around you, you then realize that there
is one more thing you should probably do. So you roll out of your warm
bag back into the almost total darkness of the hut and again feel your
way along the inside and outside of your pack, picking out the bits
and pieces you will need for this next task. In the close blackness
you begin now to assemble your tent, your fingers moving quickly and
surely as if they hold the knowledge in their tips of how it is done,
for indeed they now do after so many days and nights on the trail.
Then you stuff your pad and sleeping bag inside the hastily assembled
tent and climb in after them, sliding back in and zipping it up and
curling quickly into a fetal ball, closing your eyes and listening to
the night, comfortable in the thought that, since the stone roof seems
to hold as many openings as the walls, at least you won’t get wet now
if rain should find its way into those cracks along with the wind.
Then another thought comes, perhaps this one not quite as comforting;
that should these shaky stone walls and spiraling roof fail to hold
against the wind and happen to fall in upon you, at least you won’t
see what is coming your way and the end will be quick. No, that’s
probably not really a comforting thought. Then, although you don’t
know how you manage to do it, you fall asleep soundly to spend a
surprisingly comfortable night; a night in what you later discover is
the John Muir Hut, an artful pile of stone at twelve thousand feet in
elevation which sits atop the treeless desolation of Muir Pass in
Kings Canyon National Park, framed on the crest of the Sierra between
Mount Solomons and Mount Warlow, marking the halfway point of the John
Muir Trail as it winds its way from Yosemite to Mount Whitney. A hut
not built by John Muir; a hut in which he never actually even stayed
as it was constructed long after his death, but a hut which was built
to stand as a token to his memory and as a nod of recognition for all
that he did to preserve the mountains which surround it. Its design
was based upon alpine huts commonly constructed in Italy which had
been in use for centuries. It was built by members of the Sierra Club
and funded by a donation from one of its members. The stone for its
construction was cut out of the mountain, while the mortar was packed
up to the site along with the sand with which it was mixed. Even the
water to mix these two ingredients together into cement had to be
packed up the mountain almost ten miles. The rock walls fade inward to
a conical roof which spirals above you to a point without beam or
truss to support it. When it was completed in 1930 its cost was just
under six thousand dollars, not much in a modern sense yet at that
time it was far more than the cost of a fairly large and comfortable
house would have been in most California cities. The donation of the
money, therefore, was generous; but the donation of the time, the
labor, and the loving care which went into its construction was even
more so. The wind, snow, and ice have taken their toll over the past
nine decades; the walls may have cracks and the roof may show more
than a few holes; yet the Muir Hut still stands staunchly to honor the
man after whom it was named; in a rocky pass on a high mountain where
only the true and dedicated lovers of the Sierra will ever visit to
see and appreciate it, and this is perhaps just the way John Muir
would have liked it. So you have come to this hut on top of the world
which few people know even exists; you have just made fire, boiled a
hot drink, and slept soundly in the beautiful desolation of the High
Sierra; accomplishments in which you should find happiness and of
which you should be proud. But not too proud - John of the Mountains
did it many times and on many mountain tops in his years of traversing
the Sierra, and he did so without the benefit of the tent, the
sleeping bag, and the hut, with just a thin blanket of wool and the
endless blanket of stars to cover him at night, and a journal on his
lap in which to write the thoughts which we still read and appreciate
a century later. All by himself in a lonely place, high on an empty
mountain; a scene into which he placed himself as often as possible; a
place which we should perhaps all seek at least once in our lives.