OK, so this one is in a place called "National Park" - Joshua Tree to be precise. I hope you enjoy it.

Climbing Holy Mountain

I pause halfway up the final slope of Holy Mountain, carefully positioning my feet not to slip down the loose gravelly slope, and look back.  The morning sun shines kindly on my face and a light breeze cools the air. To my right, toward the south west, stands the distant peak of San Gorgonio, more than 10,000 feet high. The snow cover this March morning seems to reach down to around 7,000 feet. There’s no snow here on Holy Mountain where I’m standing at about 5,000 feet, with 687 more to go.



A distant view of Mount San Gorgonio from the foot of Holy Mountain



  

To my left, out over the plain I crossed to reach this mountain, I see a large patch of paler land, tan colored among the darker browns and occasional greens of the desert floor. It’s the fire area, a place that burned more than a decade ago. Seemingly large as I drove through it earlier, now it’s dwarfed by distance and the immensity of the landscape.  Plants grow slowly in the desert and although the scar is healing, it will remain visible for decades if not centuries.

Turning back to the faint path I continue upwards, wondering if I should have taken a different route. As usual, I’ve not found the exact route detailed in the guidebook, although others before me have obviously used this slanting drainage on the face of the mountain: the path is worn just enough to follow, although whether by human feet or those of bighorn sheep I’m unsure. Still, it’s clear enough, and, though steep, not difficult.

I’ve been asked if I’m afraid of rattlesnakes when I’m walking in the desert. I like to say that I’m not really afraid, but very respectful. I’d definitely be afraid if I cornered a snake in a place where it felt threatened, felt that it had to strike or die, but when I spot a thick lazy rope of brown-patterned beige sunning itself beside the trail, I experience a frisson of excitement, a thrill of caution, not really fear.

And now my bravado is tested. Visually checking the trail ahead I see half-hidden under rock and twig, a large rattlesnake. Frisson is the word!  My heart races. I stop and take a good look. Exquisitely camouflaged, the snake lies with its tail sheltered by a rock, its body looped in a close zigzag, not coiled in defense but gathered in a hunting posture, ready to strike in an instant at any unfortunate mouse or lizard that might cross its path.  The close back and forth looping, reflecting the pattern that runs down its back, gives the snake the potential reach it will need to secure its next meal.

Is it aware of my presence? At a safe distance I sit - checking the ground carefully first – and take out my camera. These will be “for the record” photos, not for display, because the snake lies in dappled shadow that render it indistinct in the photographs, and I have no intention of asking it to move into better light.

After photographs, I gently negotiate a different route, and, looking back, see that the snake has moved not an iota; it lies there under its rock, eternally alert for prey.

 It’s a primary rule of the desert always to check before you place your hands and feet anywhere, and as I ascend the mountain I renew my vigilance. And, yes, I’m nervous now, but also reassured  – that snake was well hidden, and yet, I tell myself, I saw it.

I reach the top of the slope at last, only to find, as so often in this terrain, that it’s a false summit. The true peak of the mountain looms ahead of me, a rocky crest several hundred feet higher yet, twinned by a slightly lower peak. I check the time. It’s still early in the day, I have plenty of time.

The trail now takes downward turn. This I find discouraging: my intention is to head upwards until I reach the summit and any altitude lost by a downward turning of the route will have to be regained – it seems like wasted energy. I prefer to keep heading upwards. Constantly I look ahead to assess the route. Some kind person – obviously not a bighorn sheep – has blazed a route by balancing small rocks on large boulders. This speeds my progress as now I have the benefit of their experience and no longer have to pick my own route.

Holy Mountain stands at the northern end of Joshua Tree National Park in southern California. It appears on no map with the name I’ve given it, which is a reflection of its significance to the Serrano and Chemheuvi Indians who used to live here. To them this mountainous area was the abode of spirits and only the initiated walked here. It may be that some of them still do. Perhaps I have just encountered a guardian of the place.

I have not entered this ground lightly, but with some forethought. It’s customary to bring an offering and I’ve brought music. The native flute I carry comes not from this part of the country, but from the East. Its notes, however, sound beautifully in the clear desert air and seem to add to the stillness of noon on the mountain as I rest and contemplate the peak above me.

Rockiness increases. I regret the absence of gloves in my backpack and make a mental note that they should be standard equipment here where the monzogranite crystals scrape my palms as I haul myself over ancient boulders. 

I pause and look up. It’s still a long way. The approach to the peak lies along a slanting ridge comprising a series of progressively higher rocks separated by clefts. I’m approaching perpendicular to the ridge. I have options here. Do I head to the right, away from the summit, to gain the ridge at a low point, then make my way across rock and cleft to the summit? How wide are the clefts? How much up and down scrambling will that route entail? Or can I approach the ridge full on, and scramble up one of the clefts: a short sharp climb, but one that would bring me onto the ridge much nearer the summit.

I go for the full on approach, abandoning the trail blazed by my rock-placing guide. Finding myself at the base of the selected cleft I survey its height and structure. Building blocks of dark rock – I’m on gneiss now, above the granite – stretch up almost vertically. It’s perhaps 30 feet to the top. The word “couloir” pops into my head. I’m not sure it’s quite the right word, but it’s one I’ve always wanted to use, conjuring up visions of intrepid adventurers roped together among the snows of Everest and K2. Couloir or not, I can see that the climb is do-able, but not by me. I turn to the right, making my way along the foot of the ridge to its low point. My way is blocked. Do I step over the bristling cactus and squeeze between the rock and the beargrass with its serrated edges? Or do I pass the other side of the beargrass, where it interweaves with the stiff dagger-like leaves of a yucca? Venomous reptiles are not the only dangers of the desert; it’s also wise to move circumspectly around the plants that can do great damage if not respected. I finally decide on the second option and gingerly push the beargrass leaves aside while ducking my head to avoid the spikes of yucca, allowing the crown of my battered straw hat to lead the way.

Up on the ridge where I stand above practically everything else I can see, inhaling the scent of pinyon pine and juniper and beginning to feel the exhilaration of height.

The summit still remains. It’s a huge slab of rock displaced to a 45 degree angle, lying with its upper edge rising toward the west.

I begin my final ascent, picking a zigzag trail across and up the slippery slab. There’s little purchase and it seems a long way to the top. Panting, I pause and look upward. The truth hits me: it’s do-able, but not by me.

I perch on a little ledge and take stock. Tears of frustration and disappointment roll down my face and I take out my flute to seek comfort in its voice.  The music does its magic, calming my fast-beating heart, and my agitated mind. I mull over the situation and decide that it’s a lesson to be learned: I can’t always reach the top; it’s worth the climb even if I don’t achieve the summit; perhaps the spirits are keeping me away; who am I to climb a holy mountain, anyway?

Reconciled, I start downward. Zigzagging back across the slab I notice another route, much more easily negotiable, to the top. Without a second thought I begin to move quickly, almost sprinting, up the steep but now scaleable slab. I need to use both hands to help me up, but it’s not difficult.  Pushing my way through a cleft part-blocked by a persistent scrub oak I emerge into a pulpit of rocks. Now I am above everything I see: I’ve reached the summit! I’m gasping aloud: “I can’t believe it! I’m here! Thank you, thank you! I can’t believe I made it!”  



The panorama is magnificent: San Gorgonio smiling at me from the west; the expanse of Queen Valley stretching to the south; the tumbled mountains leading down to the inhabited valley to the north and to the east, across a wide vegetated saddle, the second peak of Holy Mountain, a mere ten feet lower than this one.  I look in all directions as I turn in the Cherokee Dance of Life, my special-place ritual, weaving the energies and powers together into a vortex on the peak of this sacred mountain.

I add my name to the register of those who’ve been here before me in recent weeks.  People seek the mountains for different reasons and their log entries reflect personal goals, birthday celebrations and social bonding.

The air is clear, my heart is light, I feel grateful for the day, for the adventures of the trail and for the privilege of summiting a peak that was, to me, formidable.

And now I have to negotiate the way down. Something tells me that I took a difficult route up: “There must be an easier way” keeps echoing in my head.



Three ravens accompany me as I ease my way down over the monumental slab that crowns the mountain, then they leave me to work my way alone through cleft and crevice to the saddle that lies between the two peaks. The kindness of the route here strikes home: soil has accumulated, softening the rocky terrain; plants grow profusely. This must be the easier route.

I’m soon disillusioned. The trail pours itself over the rocky mountain slope at an almost vertical angle. My route up had been gentler, although it created puzzlement about access to the summit. This, the recommended route, leads almost straight down a rocky, loose and slippery slide area. My rock-placing guide has been active here again and much of the time I can follow – cautiously – from marker to marker. Little flowers peep out from their rocky purchases on this south-facing slope, and I can feel my skin darkening under the intensity of the early afternoon sun.



Horned lizard in Queen Valley



Reaching the plain below I fairly swing along a wash, looking out for gold nuggets which I think might have been unearthed by the recent heavy rains. I find no gold, only a prostrate horned lizard, too somnolent to scuttle away when I lie down in the sand to photograph him. That fine sand is so warm and soft in the sunshine, I decide to stay here for a while, head propped up on my backpack, and doze beside my friend the lizard.  I don’t know what she has done today to make her so tired, but I have climbed Holy Mountain.