Pinnacles National Park in fall 2011, part 2

This post is the second in a series. To see more Pinnacles fall photos, click here.

I woke up in the morning enthusiastic about the full day of hiking ahead of me at Pinnacles National Park. During my previous visit, I'd only had one day to explore, and no chance at all to enter the talus caves. We'd been headed for those caves on the last morning of that trip, when the rainstorm chased us away and ended our hike prematurely. I was glad to be back at Pinnacles so soon, and ready to pick up where I'd left off.

We left our tents early, breakfasted, and got ourselves over to Bear Gulch Trail. This trail winds through a woodland zone along Bear Creek. It offers some truly superior moss-on-rocks action, if you like that sort of thing, which all three of us did. Once again I found myself switching constantly between two lenses: the wide-angle lens for all-encompassing shots of this idyllic shady gorge, and the 50mm lens for tender moments my travel companions kept having with the boulders we passed. Both Sundari and Aki are rock climbers and lovers of the stone, and there was many a pause to stroke a shaggy green surface in appreciation. 

I was charmed by the tunnel you see in the photo below, one of several tunnels at Pinnacles. As I walked through it, I wondered how long ago it was made. Later, while reading about the history of Pinnacles National Park, I learned that this tunnel was constructed in 1942 by members of the Civilian Conservation Corps. Prior to this innovation, in order to swerve around this huge rock outcropping, the trail crossed a bridge over Bear Creek and went up the west side of the canyon for a bit, before finally reaching the Cave Loop junction. The tunnel was added by African-American enrollees during the final period of the Civilian Conservation Corps, and it provides a much more direct route to the caves.

There are two main cave areas in the park. On the west side is Balconies Cave; on the east side, where we were that day, is Bear Gulch Cave. The steep canyons we were traveling through were made by faults and fractures in the volcanic rock that comprises the central portion of the Pinnacles. (In case you missed it, here is the post where I told the story of this park's volcanic origins.) It was during the last few ice ages that rockfall turned some of these canyons into caves. This process is still occurring; the caves are by no means completely finished, no matter how gigantic and immovable the building materials may look. The range of rock sizes here is vast, from stones weighing tons to tiny pebbles and sand. It's the tiny rocks and the sand that hold the larger rocks in place, and these are the pieces most likely to be moved by flash floods through the caves. 

Our approach to this cave was a gradual physical introduction to the talus cave concept. Talus cave is the official name for what's formed when rocks fall into gorges, often right at the base of a cliff, and create passages and vaults under them. As we walked on the trail we saw more and more huge fallen boulders. Eventually we had to walk under boulders that bridged other boulders, and this was a major clue about what was coming up. At last we were at the start of a passageway under a rock into darkness: the entrance to Bear Gulch Cave. 

Only the lower half of the cave was open that day. The upper half of Bear Gulch Cave is home to a colony of Townsend's big-eared bats, a species protected by the state of California, so it's often closed to the public. In the late spring and summer months, the entire cave may be closed while the bats nest. (I just checked the Pinnacles National Park website and found out that the bats are there RIGHT NOW. Very exciting!) An infrared camera records their activities, and you can download bat movies from the park website. Townsend's bats are only one of fourteen species of bats that have been found in the boundaries of Pinnacles National Park. If we had visited Balconies Cave that day, we would have seen the home of a colony of Western Mastiff bats. Other bats live in trees and in the cliffs. Oh, how I wish I could show you a photo of a bat from my own camera, but we saw nary a bat that day. I don't know if any were in residence in the cave just then.

I did, however, see a handsome Pacific tree frog. I had to get really close to it, almost close enough to touch it, in order to get a photo with my wide-angle lens. My frog sat still for its portrait, looking up at me with its inscrutable amphibian eyes.

These caves are great fun to explore and photograph. They would be much harder to traverse without the stairs and bridges carved into the stone by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s. The work of the CCC is visible all over this park, as it is in many national parks. I was appreciative of the previous labor that allowed me to waddle in and take pictures without much effort. I also wondered what all of this looked like before it was altered by humans. There's no evidence that Native Americans used these caves, but without actual archaeological exploration, it's hard to say if they did or not. I can't imagine being a kid living in this area a thousand years ago and not making this place my secret hideout. Surely at least one shaman embarked on a vision quest in these dark passageways.         

We climbed up and out of Bear Gulch Cave and found ourselves on the banks of Bear Gulch Reservoir. The dam that creates this body of water is another example of the CCC's 1930s-era work. We flopped our sweaty selves down on the shore– even in November, the days had their warm moments– and ate an early lunch. Freshly fueled, I felt strong enough to switch to yet another lens, the Canon 70-200mm L, the lens my former biz partner Patrick always referred to as the Drainpipe. This is a big, heavy telephoto zoom lens. I had rarely used it anywhere but at wedding receptions. It was time to give it more experience in the natural world. 

Yes, I had three lenses with me on this hike. My earlier vow to simplify my shooting had been broken the moment I woke up in my Tent Cot and pondered the day ahead. For caves, clearly, I would need the wide-angle lens. For getting close-ups of interesting objects on the cliffs, I would need the Drainpipe. And I couldn't imagine ever going anywhere without the 50mm lens. I was stuck carrying three lenses; there was just no way around it. As we finished eating lunch and rose to start up the next trail, I heaved my camera bag onto my back and envied the lightness of the packs my companions carried. Today I'm very glad I had all those lenses with me. I especially love how the Drainpipe rendered the meeting of water and rock in the reservoir.

From Bear Gulch Reservoir we found the Rim Trail, and like most paths bearing the name of Rim Trail, it was highly scenic. This trail overlooked the canyon we had just emerged from. Down in the crevices between the volcanic rock spires we could see trees and other plant life thriving. A person would need ropes and climbing skills to get down there. Around us on our rock perch we saw anchors and chains for such ropes, and my climber companions discussed how they could be put to use, but none of us descended the cliffs that day. We merely paused to admire the red stone flanked with greenery and continued on to where the Rim Trail met the High Peaks Trail.  

In the caves and on the bank of the reservoir we had stayed close to one another, discussing our surroundings and sharing food, but as we hiked to higher elevations we tended to drift apart, each of us finding our own treasures to explore. Aki kept running away from the trail to ascend boulders; we would round a corner to see him far above us on some lookout point, smiling and waving. Sundari found trees to bond with, like the graceful, red-skinned manzanitas that stretched out their branches from the slopes over the trail. I was busy experimenting with taking close-up shots of small objects with the wide-angle lens. I'd been inspired by my photos of the frog in the cave, and liked how the background of such shots melted away in characteristic wide-angle dreaminess while the lichen or pile of rubble in the center remained in sharp focus. I distinctly remember this part of the day as the moment when I realized the vast potential of the wide-angle lens for a whole range of shots I'd never thought of before.

I thought I was in good shape from running around shooting weddings with pounds of lenses in my bag, but the Pinnacles tested me that day. Now, on High Peaks trail, I was beginning to slow down. My arms ached from lifting the Drainpipe, and my thighs were sore from squatting to get close to the ground with the wide-angle. I'd paused to switch from one lens to another and back again more times than I could count. My fellow hikers were still fleet of foot and full of energy, so I urged them to go ahead without me. They stopped a few times to let me catch up, but when they saw how I used such breaks as an opportunity to linger over a picturesque leaf with my camera, they chose to keep moving at their own pace.

It was decided that Sundari and Aki would continue up to almost the top of the High Peaks Trail, then turn around and walk back down the way we had come. I would stay where I was for a while, since I obviously liked it there, and then proceed downhill as slowly as I wanted to. It wasn't long before they reached a spot high on the ridge where I could see them. The nimble, not-yet-tired pair looked down at the overburdened photography nut, and I looked back at them. I enjoyed that moment so much for some reason. I think it was because I loved the feeling of being alone on this beautiful trail as sunset approached, while still knowing where my companions were standing. Soon they had left their overlook and were visible to me no longer. I let out a deep sigh, appropriate for one who is truly alone at last and carrying a heavy camera bag, and turned around to retrace my steps on the trail.  

On my section of the High Peaks Trail, all was silent. The light was becoming more slanted and golden, picking out the edges of the chaparral plants. Shadows stood out in the hillside. Now that it was just me and the landscape, now that I was tired enough to stop taking pictures for a few minutes, I felt like I was seeing the Pinnacles clearly for the first time. I breathed in air that was pure and cool, air that was charged with the magic of remoteness and sanctuary. This pause in the normal flow of life was the thing I had come up here to find. Every venture into the natural world has this moment hidden in it somewhere, and I can never accurately anticipate its arrival. I can only trust that it will find me, if I go to the places where it likes to show up, if I prepare my mind and heart with boundless appreciation of my surroundings.

Does it always feel like this up here on the High Peaks Trail? I wondered. Is there something inherently enchanted about the side of a mountain?

Of course it didn't take long for me to start aiming my camera at things again. That pause had renewed my eagerness to capture beauty. As I walked along with the camera in front of my face, I nearly ran into a man who was sprinting– yes, sprinting– up the trail. Our near-collision necessitated a conversation, so we talked about why we were each here alone. He told me that he often drives from his home in Redwood City to run the High Peaks Trail. I mentioned the amount of camera equipment I was carrying and the sad impossibilty of a pace like his for me, he showed off his pocket-sized point-and-shoot camera, and we laughed over the difference between our approaches to this hike.

Then my new friend told me something unexpected and valuable: the location of a tarantula he had just seen on the trail. "I couldn't get a good picture of it," he said, "but you probably could with that big lens!" I almost took off running right away to try to find the spider, but I remembered my manners. "You probably want to keep your heart rate up and all that," I said, "so I'll let you keep going." We parted, waving, and I jogged down the trail with my eyes peeled for arachnid movement.

I found it! The gorgeous tarantula you see below had just finished crossing the trail and was about to disappear from view. I got as many shots as I could of the creature in motion, glad I had switched back to the Drainpipe before my lucky encounter with the sprinter. Later on, I read about tarantulas. I learned that this one was probably a male, searching for a female to mate with. He will investigate every possible hole and crevice with the hope of finding a female who has made her nest and is ready to lay some eggs. I hope my tarantula found true love, or at least true fatherhood, that fine November afternoon.   

On a much darker note, I also read that many tarantulas become the victims of the tarantula hawk. This is a member of the spider wasp family that is almost as big as a hummingbird. The female tarantula hawk paralyzes the tarantula with a sting, drags the poor thing to a convenient burrow, lays her eggs on it, and buries it. As the wasp eggs hatch, the larvae completely devour the immobilized tarantula while it is still alive. I hope my tarantula did not meet this gruesome fate. He seems like such a nice guy.