Blue Lake (Day 2)

The water didn't freeze last night, but the wind was brisk once it picked up.
 
After eating breakfast and downing a steaming cup of hot chocolate we climbed a ridge to get a higher vantage of the mountains around us. I pointed out Baldy and Belknap, two massive upheavals of shale rock over 12,000 feet high. “They are steep,” I said, “but not as steep as they appear.”
 

We returned to camp and took down our tents and loaded our packs. An old road that is no longer usable leads down the steep western slope. Ben and I followed this route and talked along the way.  The wind picked up from time to time, still frigid in early morning.
 
Two young streams tumble down the steep declivity and merge at the bottom. We stopped and filled our water bottles. Here the water enters a deep canyon that runs fifteen miles to the valley. Tall peaks surrounded the young stream on three sides, so tall that the summits cannot be seen.
 

The stream flows over golden rocks in the shadows of a pine forest. Then it completely disappears underground. When it emerges, it is a beautiful turquoise lake.
 
With spring runoff the lake is nearly full. Pine trees come to the edge and some grow within the blue waters. The lake is wide enough that it literally fills one side of the canyon to the other.
 
We ate lunch on its shores and then walked to the other side on a precariously slanted edge.
 

The waters of Blue Lake spill out into the rugged canyon. We picked our way with heavy packs on our shoulders, often losing the trail. Our route took us through brush and groves of aspen. We crossed other streams that would soon join the main creek. We were always within the sound of tumbling water.
 
We came to a section of canyon where the walls weren't so narrow. There we found a flat, grassy space to pitch our tents.
 
I walked down to the river and sat on a flat rock and removed my shoes. I rolled my pant-legs to my knees and lowered my feet into the water, deep enough to cover half way up my calves. The smooth rushing fluid felt good on my tired feet, but it was colder than I expected. I pulled them out on the rock, let them breathe for a few seconds, then dipped them once again into the water, this time letting them become numb and leaving them longer.
 
I repeated the process several times, then I took off my glasses, knelt on the flat rock, and immersed my entire head beneath the water. I held my breath for five seconds, then came back up. This felt better than dipping my feet. I felt elated. I dipped my head again and swished my hair in the flowing stream. I repeated the process once more, then dried my face on a towel and let my wet skin warm in the sun before replacing my socks and shoes.
 

The rest of the evening went by without much fanfare. I climbed the hill above to gain a vantage point. Once I came back down I hung around the stream and took pictures. By the time I ate dinner the sun had set and the cold shadow of night was covering the slopes of our canyon.
 
We are miles from the nearest person tonight. When the sun first set, I thought I heard howls, bugles, and whistling. But I think they were just phantom noises coming from my imagination. I sat and watched the openings on the slopes, hoping to catch a deer or elk coming out to graze. Even the animals seem to be distant tonight.
 
But one thing is for sure. I can hear the powerful rush of water coming from the stream. I can hear it from my tent and it will stay with me all night long. It will perhaps become part of my dreams.