RETIREMENT TRIP #6

EXPLORING THE OWENS VALLEY         

     September 2015      

Another gorgeous morning dawned in California.  Sun blinded both of us as we drove on Route #203 back toward Mammoth Lakes.

“We’ll have breakfast at Starbuck’s, and that way you can get Internet service for an hour,” Andy had suggested.

Mountains in the distance along Route #395
offer spectacular scenic vistas.

It seemed like an excellent option.

Lee Vining, a town of about 300, had very limited access and none that we could connect with.

So, while all the other motel guests slept in, we were up, out and on the road.

We stopped at a pullout across from Crowley Lake on Route #395. “That’s part of the Los Angeles water supply,” guessed Andy. He had already told me he thought Route #395 was the most beautiful roadway scenery in all of America.

The lake looked low, but it was on the other side of a divided highway from the viewpoint.  I wonder who planned that one.

Rock Creek Lake attracts hundreds of locals as well as foreign
visitors for a warm and beautiful Saturday in the mountains.

Andy turned into Rock Creek Canyon, a scenic by-way into the Sierras.

The road was newly paved in the Inyo National Forest, but going was slow with workers busy on the side drains and curbs.  We guessed it must be a new water line.

“Today is an easy day,” Andy said.

I guessed that meant no long hikes.

We drove to the end of the canyon.  Every single parking place at Mosquito Flat had been filled by backpackers and hikers.  Small groups loaded gear next to cars in the overflow parking lots. Those four-to-five car lots were filled too.

Driving through Rock Creek Canyon
offers tinges of fall in the air.

We parked a little farther down in a picnic area but couldn’t see the lake, even though we climbed up the rise.  It was visible from the Pack Horse Station.  Road work and a “Follow Me” car made it impossible to stop in between, even at what might be potential pullouts.

“I’m surprised they have so many people working on a Saturday, even just cleaning up the sides,” said Andy.  “It’s double time after eight hours on Saturday, but they must be running out of season at this time of year and at this elevation.”

Leaves of hundreds of aspen trees quaked in the breeze.  Intermingled with the green pine and white granite, the color was beautiful. We had no options though.  The “Follow Me” car meant business.

As the “Follow Me” car led us downhill back to Route #395, road bikers pumped and pedaled their way uphill from the 7,000-foot elevation level along Rock Creek Canyon Road.  We thought of Drew doing a century ride from Massachusetts to Maine this morning.  I hope he’s not struggling as much as the nine bikers we passed.

Beautiful Pine Creek Road climbs back
into the mountains.

 A haze spread across the land before us when we stopped at a pullout.  The interpretive sign said we had reached the beginning of the 100-mile Owens Valley, named by John Fremont for an Army captain in his expedition.

Everything to our left was dry and barren.  To our right, green fields and trees spread across the base of the mountains. 

“You can see who didn’t sell their water rights to LA,” said Andy.

A gigantic pipe followed the road on our left.  It’s amazing how California “gold” has changed since 1849.

Near the tungsten mine,
the presence of water
allowed trees to flourish.

It was 81 degrees when we turned off on Pine Creek Road to climb back into the mountains at a Tungsten Mine.  Here too road bikers plied the pedals.  In Old Rovana the six or eight streets in town were all named for states.

“If one is Connecticut, I’ll fall over,” said Andy.

He didn’t need to worry.  They were all Western states except Alabama and Virginia.

I wondered if the street names connoted the settlers’ origins.

“They forgot Washington and Oregon,” added Andy.

Water gushed down a creek bed that paralleled Pine Creek Road.  We could still see a few tiny patches of snow in the high country, and at 7,000 feet it was 81 degrees.

At 13,748 feet Mount Morgan and Broken Finger Peak towered above us as we followed Pine Creek Road deeper into the canyon.  Cottonwood and aspen still lush and green, followed the creed bed.

Farther in and closer to the mine, the pine forest predominated.  We drove as far as the mine entrance, blocked and closed because it was Saturday.

Pine Creek gushed downhill in a torrent, still fed by a few patches of melting glaciers.  All the peaks in the surrounding area were more than 13,000 feet in elevation.  A pack train company operated back country rides to Mosquito Flat miles away.

Coyote Ridge and the Table Mountains are bathed in color
as aspen trees take on fall tinges of yellow and gold.

With our free play coupons, we stopped at the Paiute Palace Casino.  We left as big winners--$10.25, once we figured out how to use the “free play” slot machines.

“Doesn’t it feel like summer?” asked Andy, when we drove into Bishop.  The car read 92 degrees.  “Just wait and it will go down,” he added.  It didn’t.  When we parked in the shade, the temperature went up to 95 degrees.

In the late afternoon sun, Sabrina Lake shimmers, reflecting
the majestic peaks on both sides.

We stopped at Philips Camera Shop.  The clerk was wonderful but delivered bad news. He checked out the camera and assured us the battery, which he didn’t have in stock, seemed fine.  But after checking out the switches, he noticed that the power switch had too much play.  He felt it was wearing and suggested calling 1-800-OKCANON. Major repair may be in order.

A huge sign on Main Street flashed the warning: “WATCH FOR DEER MIGRATION.”  It’s hard to imagine with 95 degree temperatures that it’s time for the winter migration here.  Under the flashing sign, we saw that the population of Bishop was 3,575—probably more deer here than people.

Andy chose Buttermilk Road initially as a way to reach the mountains outside of town.  It turned into dirt almost immediately, so we didn’t go far, but the dryness of the valley made all the colors blend into bland.

West of town was the rich district.  People had manicured lawns with ponds in front of the houses—their expanses of grass perfectly cut and lined with weeping willows and flowering shrubs.

A nearby waterfall trickles from the side
of the cliff and fills the stream below
where aspen grow in abundance.

“There’s a whole lot of water conservation going on here,” said Andy, sarcastically, “and the saddest part is that we pay three times as much for the water we use out East.”

We found Route #168 that climbed into the Coyote Ridge and Table Mountains.  The aspen had not yet turned here, but even at 8,000 feet it was still 80 degrees.  A drier environment, the mountainsides of carved granite glowed in the later afternoon sun.

Suddenly, beautiful homes came into view.  The summer community of Aspendell at 8,471 feet, population 75, seemed to be thriving.  Beyond that, the mountain faces were jumbles of rocks.  Aspen filled the canyon floor.  The higher we climbed, the more yellow appeared.

 By the time we reached the hydroelectric dam and Sabrina Lake, the trees blazed with color.  Far in the distance 13,000-foot peaks poked spires into a hazy sky.  Although the water level of the lake was far, far below capacity, the water reflected the spectacular mountains on both sides and the magnificent colors of late September.



With the sun below the mountain
peaks and the haze from a fire up the
canyon, the color along South Lake
Road is less spectacular.

 South Lake, at the end of the other fork in the road, promised more concentrated color, according to some fishermen we met near Sabrina Lake. 

We drove back in, climbing past the resort village of South Fork.  A waterfall spilled from the mountainside. “I think it’s an underground feed,” guessed Andy.

South Fork Creek tumbles downhill,
producing hydroelectric power
for the whole region.

“Oh quick,” said Andy, stopping the car.  “You can catch the sun on that outcropping.”

Again, I hopped out to snap a picture.  The sun dipped behind the peak to the west, and the valley darkened in shadow.

Deeper into the canyon, Andy noticed the haze. I could smell smoke.  Somewhere in this canyon there was fire.  Smoke permeated the air, and the lake was below the outtake for the hydroelectric plant.  We didn’t stay long.

We stopped near Parchers Outfitters Resort, established for trail rides in 1921, to take pictures of the creek pouring down the valley.  I wonder what it looks like when there is an abundance of water.

In South Fork a grocery store advertised Beer, Wine and Worms—the necessities of life.  From the looks of the neighboring cabins, those probably were the necessities. Most of the weekend visitors carried fishing poles.

We coasted back down toward Bishop.  The foothills--actually ugly in their dryness—were nearly barren and dirt-covered.

“Not much can get over the Sierras here,” said Andy.  “Most of the peaks are 13,000 feet.”

No wonder the pioneers had a struggle going West!