The bear snorted loudly, which immediately caused the Indian to flinch. The animal snorted again, lowering its head this time toward the ground. To the man’s surprise it then turned about abruptly and struck out across the meadow. It did not look back, and soon disappeared behind an array of boulders.
Stalking Moon breathed a deep sigh of relief, but then heard another sound directly behind him—an approaching horse. He turned about to face Michael, riding atop Spirit Rider. The man tipped his hat as he reined in near the Indian. A smile broke out on the face of Stalking Moon, who then wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
“Gray rider—it is good to see you!”
“And I you, Stalking Moon,” Michael nodded. “Where’s your mount?”
“He waits on the lower plateau within the meadow. That is where I met early with the fishermen, long before the rising of the sun—even before the dawn approached the mountains to the east. You are still here on the mountain. I thought you would be gone with the passing of the moon?”
“Not hardly. I didn’t want to miss your encounter with the great bear. Looks like it went well.”
Michael then sat erect in the saddle, looking about him at the beauty and majesty of the mountain. He spoke again at the Indian, but continued with his observations.
“It’s nice to see this white granite up close in the daylight. It’s quite a beautiful thing that was formed here—all these crags and such. I wasn’t around here of course when the floodwater’s poured over the land. I watched from afar, though, and I could see when the mountains here were formed up. They’re parallel with the ocean ridges, yonder, from which they slid, leavin’ some wide and deep trenches in between. All that’s covered with saltwater now.”
He then looked back at Stalking Moon. “Oh, I ’spect it will be a while before folk’s learn about that—and I ’spect there’ll be a heap of arguin’ over it,” he smiled. “Some folk’s tend to think they know more than God, and since this is still Satan’s domain, I figure that majority will rule. They’ll spread their ideas throughout the land, not knowin’ what really happened here—it’ll end up in books that fill the minds of future generations with some real nonsense—in one form or another.”
“I do not understand these things you speak of,” the Indian responded, his hand against his forehead shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up at Michael.
“Well, it won’t affect you, Stalking Moon—not in your human lifetime. But, before God wraps things up on this present earth, the world will be a crazy place to live in, and an ignorance of truth will abound. Some sad days ahead, that’s sure—it’s all been written. But, good will prevail in the end. And folk’s like you and others over the centuries will have been a part of that good. That’s the bottom line to my way of thinkin’.”
“Where do you go now, great warrior?”
“Oh, I have some things to tend to south of town. You go back down and get your horse and then ride on down to those boulders just west of your village—where you and I talked before. You wait there a bit. I’ll see you again.”
Michael then reined his horse about and rode out of the meadow, headed back toward the lower elevations. Stalking Moon stood in the meadow for a time, thinking about the things that Michael had said to him. For sure some things confused him. But he soon set them aside—he had met with the great bear, which was most important to him at that time.
And it was very important. The year of the bear was foretold in the legends passed on to his father, and then on to him. The legends said that in the year when the evil would depart from the mountain, that a red man and a bear would become one in spirit, and the anger between them would be no more. The animals on the mountain also would be free from the ravages of man, and the birds would nest in the trees and upon the rocks, unafraid.
Standing Moon soon began his trek back down the mountain, hiking leisurely back toward the lower plateau where Wind Spirit awaited him. Now far ahead of the Indian, Michael and Spirit Rider stopped in the lower meadow for a few minutes to meet with Wind Spirit and to offer him some nuggets of sweet stock, which Michael carried in those saddlebags.
Judge Dawson and Sheriff Johnson sat at breakfast with several other close friends at the Lone Pine Hotel and Restaurant. In the middle of that breakfast the judge stood up and addressed everyone who was seated in the dining room. There were quite a few folk’s in there on that Monday morning, which was a good thing with relation to what the judge was about to present to them.
“I’m glad there are so many here—it’s a beautiful day out there, isn’t it? The sun shining so very brightly, the skies above the mountains exceptionally clear, and then there are all of these fine folk’s in town, who have chosen to eat their breakfast within the walls of this grand establishment, and...”
“Just get to the point, Judge,” Ben whispered. Some overheard his comment and laughed out loud.
The judge cleared his throat. “As I was saying—since so many are here, I would like to announce that a group of us will be going over to the Indian Reservation later on this morning, in honor of Chief Bear Claw’s annual birthday celebration. Jerry Garcia has arranged for us to meet with the Indians, and I believe that this very first meeting of the townsfolk with the natives will prove to be beneficial for the city of Lone Pine and its residents.”
The judge glanced over at Ben momentarily before continuing with his words. “I for one have recently learned a most valuable lesson regarding our relationships with our neighbors. People who share all things with one another, and who help one another along life’s journey, will be rewarded both in this life, and the next.”
Lovella and Misty were standing just inside the kitchen door when the judge had finished his words. They immediately stepped into the dining area where both of them began to applaud. Everyone seated in that dining room soon joined in with them. The judge, somewhat overwhelmed, held up his hand.
“Please—please, and thank you for this kindness. I want to add that anyone who chooses to go along with us today is more than welcome. What’s the saying—the more the merrier?” the judge then exhibiting a wide grin on his face. “This will be a most wonderful experience—for all of us!”
The applause then resounded. Some whistled out at the judge, while Jim Boyce threw his wig high into the air against the ceiling, shouting a bold ‘ye-haw’ among the crowd. Misty’s dog suddenly barked out from the kitchen. Margaret Warner’s young daughter then cried out so that all could hear her:
“Merry Christmas!”
Margaret was taken aback, but responded softly. “It’s not Christmas yet, Sonja.”
The young girl smiled. “It feels like it, mommy.”
Everyone then began laughing and chattering pleasantly with one another, and from table to table discussed the upcoming event while they carried on with their breakfast. Ol’ Sam Waters was still writing everything down in that diary.
When Michael quite sometime later reached the base of the mountain, he reined south and headed across the hills toward John Replogle’s place. John was saddling his horse when the man rode in. John was more than honored to see him. Michael reined in just outside the corral where John stood. He tipped his hat at the man.
“Mornin’, John.”
John nodded in response. “Michael—I want to thank you for all that you’ve done. I just don’t seem to have the words that would genuinely express everyone’s…”
“I know, John. I know how you feel, and I’m obliged. You take care of yourself and each of your critters here a’ bouts. Give the townsfolk my best, and you tell Bear Claw that I’ll see him again one of these days.”
“I was just saddling up to meet with the townsfolk. We’ll be goin’ over to the village around the noon hour. The Judge has it all arranged. We’re going to celebrate Bear Claw’s birthday. The folks’ are pretty excited about it.”
“I know that, John, and I’m real pleased about it myself. You see that it becomes a habit, huh?”
“I will, Michael.”
“I’ll be ridin’ on. You take care, John.”
John was just a bit choked up at that moment, and couldn’t get any more words out. Michael reined about and headed southeast. John watched him until he rode among the rocks and on out of sight, then cinched up the saddle on his mount and led him out from the corral.
He looked in the distance one more time for Michael, to no avail, then mounted up and headed toward town. It wasn’t easy seeing Michael ride off—he wouldn’t forget the man—not for a minute.
Stalking Moon had reunited with Wind Spirit in the lower meadow and now approached the tall rocks at the base of the mountain, where he and Michael had talked just two days before. The Indian reined in near the outcrop and dismounted. Still thinking about his encounter with the great bear, he climbed to the top of the tallest rock and stood facing the mountain. He then raised his arms into the air, singing and chanting:
“Hey-ya-ya-ya-ya, ho-ya-ya-ya, hey-ya-ya-ya-ya! Hey-ya-ya-ya-ya, ho-ya-ya-ya, hey-ya-ya-ya-ya!
I thank you, oh Grand Father—for making me a brother to the great bear! I have longed for this day, oh Great One. Thank you for my earthly father, who taught me the path to walk in this life. I am your servant forever!”
At that instant a great, white cloud appeared above him and within just moments in time had completely overshadowed and surrounded the man. His mount down below then whinnied, looking upward for its master—but the animal could sense that the man was no longer there! The great cloud had quite suddenly disappeared and the sun now shone brightly against the bold face of the rock upon which the man had been standing. So incredibly bright was the sunburst upon that rock that the flare bleached the dark, brown stone to a golden tan within seconds. This radiant burst of light then abruptly faded; the sunlight above resuming its normal appearance.
Wind Spirit then turned about and was soon at a full gallop, his ears perked in fear as he ran amid the rock-strewn terrain and on toward the Indian encampment, still some distance to his east. A great thundering of his hooves could be heard within the village as he continued the approach. But once again a white cloud suddenly appeared directly above, which promptly overshadowed the animal, engulfing him within its midst in an instant. The cloud then disappeared as quickly as it had formed, and the horse was no longer there—only the animal’s fresh hoof prints in the dirt remained, and according to the villagers, it was quite a stride.
Just a short time later Michael reined in at Buck Grace’s ranch. Buck was saddled up and just about to ride into town. He was leading his horse out from the corral but was taken aback when he suddenly observed Michael. The tall, lean rider dressed in black sat on his horse just a few feet to the front of him. Buck cleared his throat and spoke at him.
“This is the first time I’ve ever laid eyes on you, stranger, but I sure know who you are. That horse of yours is a dead giveaway—I mean a live one—I’m a little tongue tied at the moment,” Buck gasped.
Michael smiled, weaving the reins of his mount back and forth between his fingers. “No need to be. You’re the last on my list to talk to before I ride off. I know you sculpture in wood, Buck, and you do a fine job. Just wanted to let you know that they’re diggin’ in Death Valley over yonder—a white mineral they call gypsum.”
“I’ve heard they’re findin’ all kinds of minerals over that way,” Buck responded. “Don’t know much about gypsum, though.”
“You need to look into it, Buck. Once they learn to process it, you can sculpture in it. Your work ought to become right popular after that. You’re a fine artist. You give God’s creatures quite an honor. Owls and birds, bears and wolves and such will look real fine on gypsum. It takes to paint real good, too. You take care, Buck.”
Michael then reined about to head south. Buck suddenly hollered out at him as the man rode off.
“Thank you—thank you…Hey—what was that sunburst all about just a bit ago?”
His mouth suddenly went dry. He swallowed once, still a bit shaken by the man’s presence. He afterward wiped at his brow and soon regained composure. He then picked up the reins of his mount and swung up into the saddle.
Buck watched Michael ride off for a brief time, still a bit taken aback, then kicked up his horse and headed toward town, his long hair flowing in the wind.
Michael continued to ride south. He crossed Tuttle Creek and rode by the fishermen’s camp. No one was about. He rode another mile to the top of a small rise, still headed south. There he dismounted and stepped away from his horse. He then looked up into the sky, where a white cloud had suddenly formed just above him. There was a grin on his face as he looked toward Spirit Rider.
A moment later the cloud descended and completely engulfed the animal. He could be heard nickering within the veil for a brief time, but stopped abruptly when the cloud suddenly disappeared from around him and lingered no more. The horse looked about and saw Michael, who then approached him once again. The man reached up and placed a hand on the snout of the animal, rubbing at it gently.
“You are spirit now, Spirit Rider,” he smiled. “No more pain, no more sore hooves—you can wallow in them mesquite thorns all you want, big fella’.”
The horse then spoke audibly. “Thank you, my Master.”
“I am no longer your master either. The Most High is your Master. We’re partners—I am your friend, and always have been, but there is no rank between us anymore. We are one.”
Michael then looked to the north. “Your brother approaches in a whirlwind. He is now spirit as well. Stalking Moon rides upon him, and the man is my new armor bearer—my comrade-at-arms in the great war,” he smiled.
A thick cloud of dust soon whipped up from the floor of the high desert rise upon which they stood. Moments later when that broad whirlwind subsided and the dust had cleared, there was Stalking Moon, sitting atop Wind Spirit. He soon nudged the animal forward toward Michael and his horse. Both animals then nickered when the Indian drew near.
Michael looked up at Stalking Moon as the man’s mount came to a halt just beside him.
“You ready?”
“I am indeed ready,” the Indian nodded.
Michael then swung onto Spirit Rider’s bare back. The saddle was now gone, as was the deerskin jacket, the bedroll, the saddlebags and the Sharps carbine. Michael retained his present dress, as did Stalking Moon his deerskin clothing. The three eagle feathers remained in the Indian's hair as well. Michael then tilted the brim of his hat down just above his eyes.
“Let’s ride!”
The horses bolted off at that moment, down the gentle slope of the hillside they ran and soon reached a full gallop on the high plain. The horses and their riders, side by side as they rode away, gradually faded from sight as they distanced themselves from the rise. In just moments neither the riders nor their mounts could be seen any longer—there was only a trail of dust on the vast plain. It lingered in the air for a bit, and then faded away as well.
This story is not over just yet…
Epilogue
On Monday, August 18, 1873, the three fishermen—Johnny Lucas, Al Johnson, and Charlie Begole reached the summit of Mt. Whitney, highest mountain in the continental United States. Those men left what they called a fisherman's marker up there on top, and thus named the great mountain ‘Fishermen’s Peak’.
Just a few days later sheepherders William Crapo and Abe Leyda reached the summit. Then on September 6, Crapo and Leyda, along with Tom McDonough, Carl Rabe and W.L. Hunter, returned to the summit, establishing the third recorded ascent. Explorer Clarence King finally reached the summit on September 19, 1873, after numerous failed attempts, which were prior to August 18 of that year—before Michael came.
Well known Sierran John Muir climbed Whitney in 1873 as well, but failed to reach the peak on his first attempt due to extremely cold temperatures and fatigue. His next attempt was successful, and he reached the summit at 8am in the morning on October 21, 1873. Muir’s climb was exceptional by t
oday’s standards; the hike took him just three days ’round trip, starting on foot from the town of Independence, some 15 miles away.
In the years following those early ascents of Mt. Whitney, a controversy developed over the peak’s official name. The people of Lone Pine and the surrounding area knew it as ‘Fishermen’s Peak’. On the other hand, the California Geological Survey knew it as ‘Mt. Whitney’, as named by the Brewer party of 1864, who had never reached the summit. The people of Lone Pine thought the right to name the peak should belong to the very first group to climb it, and rightly so.
The name controversy was eventually settled by the Governor of California. On March 28, 1878, Inyo County Assemblyman Moffat introduced a bill to make the official name ‘Fishermen’s Peak’. This bill passed the Assembly and reached the State Senate on April Fool’s Day, 1878. It is not known if the Senators were in a frivolous mood, but they amended the bill to read ‘Fowler’s Peak’, after one of their colleagues.
The amended bill passed the Senate and was sent to the Governor of California for signature, but he vetoed it on the grounds that it was frivolous. The name ‘Mt. Whitney’ thus remained on the official records of the Geological Survey, as well as on early maps of the area. Local usage of ‘Fishermen’s Peak’ eventually died out, and to this date ‘Mt. Whitney’ has similarly survived other attempts at renaming it.
For a while the local press referred to the mountain as the ‘Dome of Inyo’, and much later there was an attempt to name it ‘Mt. Churchill’ (after England’s great statesman). But the name ‘Mt. Whitney’ is official, and it has long been generally accepted. However, from its early history and even until today the local Indians still deem it the ‘Rock of Thunder’.
The first recorded female ascent of Mt. Whitney occurred in 1878. The women were members of a group on mountain holiday from the town of Porterville. On August 3, 1878, Hope Broughton, Mary Martin, Anna Mills and a Mrs. Redd (first name?) were the first women to reach the summit of Mt. Whitney. One of these women, Anna Mills, is deserving of further notice…
Three Days In LONE PINE, An Untold Tale of The High Sierra Page 20