Hitting the Sierra high country

Lana is a striking blonde who glides through life with the ease and sophistication of someone born in Connecticut. She's our new neighbor and we're itching to show her some of our favorite spots hereabouts. Our first stab at impressing her is a day trip to Tuolumne Meadows of Yosemite. Lana confesses to being squeamish about driving in the mountains and the Lee Vining/Tioga Pass road is roller coaster grade. It was constructed by miners back when "there's gold in them thar hills" was the cry and mule power was the means of getting there. I offer to drive her new 4 wheel drive Volvo, which isn't altogether painful or embarrassing.

If you're joining us from Highway 395, turn off at Holbrook Junction (2 miles north of Topaz Lake) onto Highway 208 to Wellington, (15 miles) where you connect with Highway 338. Once a stagecoach route, this stretch of road falls into a "best kept secret" category. Very little traffic. Piñon pines, puffy volcanic cones and lush green pastures pay homage to the "Three Sisters," a trio of mountain peaks of the Sweetwater Range. They're mantled in cocoa brown with streaks of white and are hollow, perfect for fattening cattle. I'm so proud of this stretch of road that I sneak a peak at our guest to see how she's taking it. "Hm-m-m, very pretty," she murmurs.

When we meet the East Walker River we pass into California and the road becomes California 182 and still empty of traffic. Bush willows hug the stream banks as frothy water rushes past. In about 20 minutes we swing around a bend in the road and voila, a vast lake, a large spread of meadows and a row of saw-toothed peaks. A network of streams wiggle through the luxuriant grasses. A Switzerland knock-off for sure. Lana's camera is out. She's hooked.

"Wow, so this is Bridgeport. The Bridgeport at home in Connecticut is totally the opposite, a real downer, depressed, awful. This is beautiful. How will I explain this Bridgeport to my friends back home?"

The "Latte Da" coffee emporium in Lee Vining is one of the treats I've promised myself. We walk into a cottage type café. A perky young maiden takes our order.

"Homey" describes the rough tables and hand crafts. We relax and chat on the front porch and admire Mono Lake. I pity "silver streak" drivers. Travel can be so much more than just getting good mileage and getting there.

With a gulp, we turn onto Highway 120. Lana has no idea what's coming. Highway 120 is carved into one side of a humongous "V" shaped slash into opposing mountains. Landslides are not uncommon. Much of the road is an 8 percent incline and you can see for miles ahead. What a road; raw, unashamed, audacious. Brittle, razor sharp mountains top the far side of the "V" while on our side, the road clings precipitously, as if it's been bulldozed by elves. Dynamiting this road must have been a real blast. (oops). Near vertical slopes soar up on our right; sheer bottomless drop offs on the left. Although I'm deliberately poking along, I hear "A little slower would be nice." "Toto, we're not in Connecticut anymore" is written all over her face.

The road dips into a cleft, then flares out to the edge of a cliff. We could very well be flying with eagles. Slabs of ocher stained granite peel away beside us; brooks cascade down, disappear under the road and tumble into the abyss. Days pass, actually only about 20 minutes and we unceremoniously top out beside Ellery Lake.

Lana's out of the car in a flash, camera in hand.

"Darling" would be a good word to describe the sapphire blue petite lake. A miniature in a setting for crushed boulders and scraggly trees over seen by needle sharp pinnacles chiseled to perfection.

Millions of years ago, a molten mass of geological turmoil suddenly froze. Instantly erosion began. Today domes, escarpments, towers, every conceivable shape exists. Just ahead is the Park Ranger station. As I hand him my "Golden Age" pass, I notice we're at 9,945 feet. Yowsa; at last, the high country.

Tuolumne Meadows is the largest "subalpine" meadow in the Sierra. Subapline means below timberline, a ranger tells me. Because there is an abundance of water in the meadow, trees will not grow, creating a pastoral panorama of grasses. How tranquil the Tuolumne River glides through it, unhurried, clear as glass. Mountain size domes, ridges and minarets whimsically ring the meadow. Check out Ansel Adams renowned nature photographer.

Tenaya Lake, our destination, is just ahead, one of the few high country lakes accessible by road. Tenaya shimmers beneath a clear blue sky. The air is intoxicating, cool and pine scented. On the sheltered side of the lake, tall pines march to the shore line.

At the windward end of the lake is a beach of cream colored sand. I watch in dismay as a skinny, alabaster white male plunges into the lake. Ruthie, his petite wife, photographs her hero. It seems that Robb, the cavorting dolphin, and Ruthie are on a one year medical scholarship from England.

"We love this part of the States," Ruthie beams and she expounds of the beauty of the Sierra. On behalf of my 363 million fellow citizens, I accept her praise.

After a breezy picnic, we decide to head for home. Lana's enthusiasm has added to our enjoyment of the journey.

I first came to Tuolumne Meadows in the '30s as a timorous kid. My dad, a ferociously competitive salesman always saved two weeks each year for a Yosemite visit. It took two days to drive from Los Angeles to Yosemite in those days. Gasoline was 11 cents a gallon. That has all changed, except for the high country. Rugged, sometimes harsh, Tuolumne Meadows still always seems like home.

-- Ron Walker is a Smith Valley resident and regular contributor to The Record-Courier.