- Joined
- Jan 22, 2008
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THE ROAR OF SILENCE
As we rounded the switchback, the craggy bulk of Mount Index loomed ahead, dominating even the mottled grey sky. After five hours of hearing my canteen clank and rattle as we inched up from the valley floor, the sight was refreshing. It was the first reward on our trek to Icicle Lake; we paused along the trail to savor it.
Mike slipped out of his pack and began the ritual of readying his camera. Greg scoured his pockets for a candy bar. I laid back on a grassy incline, receiving the thanks of my aching, city-bred muscles. Some six miles of trail lay ahead and it was pushing three o' clock. But the first sight of Index casts a spell that makes hikers stop and pay homage to the mountain, before continuing on into the heart of her isolated domain.
We didn’t say much, and when the wind died down the silence of that high country was overpowering. I looked at the trail angling up through the firs, and for the first time the thought of the rugged miles ahead and the gloomy weather forecast didn’t bother me. We had, after all, taken this Friday off, and with two full days ahead of us, we would at least be assured of spending this weekend away from the nerve-numbing city. That was the main thing. And since our car was the only one parked at the head of the trail when we left, we could expect to beat everyone else to the lake, and get our pick of the choice campsites.
So even if it did rain, which the forecast and the thick grey sky suggested, I was content. It would be a good weekend, and the mountain, with its great enveloping silence, seemed to accept us.
I was staring at the mountain, when my mood was broken by an irritating buzzing in my ears. I saw that Greg heard it, too, and I asked him if it might be a chain saw.
"Sounds more like trail bikes" he said. He shouldered his pack and glanced down the trail. "We better get moving if we expect to beat 'em to the lake."
With the dull ache of my muscles as they received the weight of my pack came the realization that, unless the trail bikes ran out of gas, we didn't stand a chance of outracing them. We called to Mike, who joined us with his camera dangling from his neck, and we started up the trail. A few drops of rain began to spatter the brush around us.
After hiking half an hour, Mike started grumbling about the noise, which had grown steadily more obnoxious as the trail bikes closed on us. I said nothing, but I thought of the city from which we were trying to escape, and of the noisy machines chasing us into the wilderness. A taste like rancid milk grew in my mouth. Mike was mumbling something about a lost lens cap, but all I seemed to hear was the angry roar of engines, reverberating off the trees. It sounded like they were just beyond the last switchback now. We prepared to get off the trail, to let the bikes go by.
The immense clamor suddenly died down, then ceased. Silence fell over the land with a numbing thud. The bikers had evidently stopped just a few yards down the trail. Greg shot me a sour look, motioned with his head up the sloping trail, and began walking. Mike and I followed, scuffling through the silence. I realized that had the bikers been simply fellow backpackers, resting along the trail so near to us, we would probably not hesitate to go back to talk. The immense isolation of the high country usually fosters a comradeship among strangers. Now I felt nothing but irritation. It seemed as if I was walking up a city street, with all its ugly congestion and noise. I glanced back down the trail and nearly tripped over a sapling blocking my path.
The cold drizzle had stopped, but the trail was dotted with muddy pools. Up ahead, Mike was mumbling. He was saying he knew of a way to slow down the motorbikes.
"If we dragged a few of these big logs across the trail" he said, "they'd have to stop and drag them away. It might not stop ‘em, but it would sure make 'em uncomfortable! like they've made us.”
I shook my head ; piling log barricades on the trail wouldn't work. The bikers would start moving again any time now, and they were no more than ten minutes behind us. Besides, dragging logs was too much work. Skirting a puddle, Greg made a crack about how you can't fight the machine age. He froze in his tracks, and pointed up the trail. There, poised in the path 15 feet from us, stood an enormous buck staring back at us in majestic silence. His crown of antlers brushed the boughs of an overhanging cedar. He sniffed the air, and the flash of his white-tipped tail told us he had caught our scent. Yet he remained, seemingly transfixed, as we were at him. Mike slowly began to remove his camera; this picture would be one-of-a-kind. Just as he set his focus, a furious metallic rasp rolled up from below. The buck vanished. Mike spat a curse. I swung down my pack and crouched beside the trail. We would let the machines pass.
After a few long minutes of growing thunder, the first bike skidded around the bend below, the spinning rear wheel gouging the trail. The rider wore a red helmet with a mud-spattered visor. He looked a part of his machine, yet when he saw us he raised his hand in salute. I nodded, unsmiling. He carefully avoided the long puddle that covered half the trail and shot past. The roar was deafening. Two more bikes appeared, churning toward us. A child clung to the back of one, bumping over the protruding roots. They too «skirted the mud puddle and rounded the turn above us. Still the din did not subside. In a few moments a fourth biker boomed into view, gunning his machine to catch up. He flew up the trail, and when his front tire hit the roots it became airborne. He swerved to steady his bike splashing through the puddle and casting up gushers of dirty water. Mike, lounging against a stump, was caught in the shower. He swore loudly, but was drowned out in the roar. The biker, either ignorant of what he had done or too embarrassed to stop, sped up the trail and was gone.
Exhaust smoke hung in the air. Greg looked at me, shaking his head. Mike was cursing bitterly. The camera hanging from his neck was dripping sludgy water. The lens had been scratched, and the delicate focusing mechanism was clogged with silt. If it wasn't ruined, it would at least be an expensive repair job, A chilly mist enveloped us while we waited for Mike to wipe down his camera and change his shirt, In the distance the motorcycles were audible, biting into the mountainside on the last steep climb to the lake. When we pushed on again my mood was black, The rain was heavy now, filtering down through the firs, splattering my poncho, Ahead lay the prospect of making a soggy camp, and of hearing the bikers ride around the lake, My lower back ached dully, We said little as we labored up the ridge, Mike in the lead, Greg and I some distance behind. I hoped Mike's wrath was subsiding, though I realized he wasn't the type for angry confrontations, When I looked up the trail he had disappeared, shrouded in the mist, Then I saw him through the overhanging boughs; at his feet a good-sized log lay at an angle across the trail, "Maybe this will let them know how we feel about them," he said to Greg, I kicked at the heavy, moss-covered log and tiredly stepped over it, perhaps he was right, I thought. It was nearly five when we reached the lake, The rain was lighter now, but thick, dark clouds hung like smoke overhead, Making our way to a dreary clearing near the shore, we began stringing up plastic sheets, The bikers camp was already set up across the lake, their four cycles parked in a circle around a fire, as if they were expecting an attack, But at least the machines weren't running. I looked at the small lake, surrounded by stunted cedars, and wondered why I had spent nearly a full day getting to this place, It seemed a big waste, A cold trickle of rain ran down my neck, and I ducked under the plastic, We ate an undercooked meal that night and went to bed early, with the splat of rain on our plastic interrupting the silence. Saturday morning Mike and Greg headed out on a 3 mile excursion to Icicle Falls, saying they would be back in time for a late lunch, Killing time appealed to me more than hiking, and the monotony of the lonely camp was almost pleasant, Our neighbors across the lake were generally quiet, keeping their bike riding to a minimum, Around noon the boy came by walking, on a trip around the lake, He showed me a camera lens cap he had found on the trail, asking if it belonged to any of us, With a slightly sour grin I took it, remembering that Mike had lost his, I debated whether I should tell Mike now about his found lens cap, but I decided his temper might not stand the strain, I would tell him when we reached the car, when maybe he could laugh about it, I thanked the boy and he left, walking quickly under a darkening sky.
Around two o'clock, as the wind blew harder under a churning overcast, I began to worry about Mike and Greg, They should have been back by now. And a storm was obviously brewing, A motorcycle started up across the lake! and I was suddenly struck by the thought that with a bike it would be an easy half-hour up to the falls, If Mike or Greg were hurt or something, those noisy machines would come in handy, But I just couldn't picture Mike being carted down the trail, bumping along on the back of a bike, I threw a log on the fire, deciding to walk a ways up the trail that led to the falls.
The wind was whipping the lake into a froth as I walked along, The falls trail started across the lake, near the bikers' camp, Halfway around the lake, I saw a biker speeding toward me' The engine noise was almost drowned out by the wind, The rider was pointing back across the lake, and I glanced back, A ragged flame licked up against the gloom, our camp was burning!
The bike skidded to a stop in front of me, The rider slapped the rear seat, and I climbed on, We shot along the rocky trail, Ahead I saw the fire, feeding on the wind and the plastic sheets. We were there in an instant, dragging the flaming plastic to the lake and drenching the sheets, the wind had evidently blown the sheets down into the campfire, but they were the only casualties; our tent was scorched but undamaged.
"Lucky we got here before the tent went up," the biker said, peering through his tinted visor.
“Yeah” I said, “And thanks for the ride, you can sure handle that bike”
About an hour later Mike and Greg wandered in. They had decided to hike up above the falls, and it had taken longer than they thought, I told them about the fire, but they seemed more interested in fixing lunch, I was irritated, feeling dumb that I had worried about them, A wind-blown drizzle began to fall, dampening all our spirits, The rain continued into the night, and we decided to hike out as early as possible Sunday morning.
Under a high white sky, no longer raining but cold, we fought the morning chill as we stuffed our packs, Mike was determined to at least beat the bikers off the lake, and we started down by seven-thirty, After a mile on the trail we heard the familiar grind of the motorbikes as one after another revved up in the distance, Soon the intense roar was upon us again, and we stepped off the trail to let them pass, As before, the leader raised his arm to us as his machine flashed past, the boy clinging to the back of his seat. We watched, humbled by the noise, as the procession passed. Then we resumed our slow journey downward.
A few moments later the bikers' roar seemed to diminish, then died, Ahead of me, Greg shifted into a clumsy run, A thought raced into my mind and I too quickened my pace. Rounding a turn, my empty stomach suddenly felt burdened by oppressive weight, Three bikes littered the trail before me; the fourth was smashed against a tree five yards off to the left, Four of the riders knelt in a circle near the twisted machine, One of the men held his arm, His jacket was ripped and muddy, At his feet lay the boy, sobbing softly.
"It's his leg," someone said, and then the talk died down,
I looked at the log laying in the trail, a chunk gouged out of its surface. I stood there in silence a silence that roared in my ears.
As we rounded the switchback, the craggy bulk of Mount Index loomed ahead, dominating even the mottled grey sky. After five hours of hearing my canteen clank and rattle as we inched up from the valley floor, the sight was refreshing. It was the first reward on our trek to Icicle Lake; we paused along the trail to savor it.
Mike slipped out of his pack and began the ritual of readying his camera. Greg scoured his pockets for a candy bar. I laid back on a grassy incline, receiving the thanks of my aching, city-bred muscles. Some six miles of trail lay ahead and it was pushing three o' clock. But the first sight of Index casts a spell that makes hikers stop and pay homage to the mountain, before continuing on into the heart of her isolated domain.
We didn’t say much, and when the wind died down the silence of that high country was overpowering. I looked at the trail angling up through the firs, and for the first time the thought of the rugged miles ahead and the gloomy weather forecast didn’t bother me. We had, after all, taken this Friday off, and with two full days ahead of us, we would at least be assured of spending this weekend away from the nerve-numbing city. That was the main thing. And since our car was the only one parked at the head of the trail when we left, we could expect to beat everyone else to the lake, and get our pick of the choice campsites.
So even if it did rain, which the forecast and the thick grey sky suggested, I was content. It would be a good weekend, and the mountain, with its great enveloping silence, seemed to accept us.
I was staring at the mountain, when my mood was broken by an irritating buzzing in my ears. I saw that Greg heard it, too, and I asked him if it might be a chain saw.
"Sounds more like trail bikes" he said. He shouldered his pack and glanced down the trail. "We better get moving if we expect to beat 'em to the lake."
With the dull ache of my muscles as they received the weight of my pack came the realization that, unless the trail bikes ran out of gas, we didn't stand a chance of outracing them. We called to Mike, who joined us with his camera dangling from his neck, and we started up the trail. A few drops of rain began to spatter the brush around us.
After hiking half an hour, Mike started grumbling about the noise, which had grown steadily more obnoxious as the trail bikes closed on us. I said nothing, but I thought of the city from which we were trying to escape, and of the noisy machines chasing us into the wilderness. A taste like rancid milk grew in my mouth. Mike was mumbling something about a lost lens cap, but all I seemed to hear was the angry roar of engines, reverberating off the trees. It sounded like they were just beyond the last switchback now. We prepared to get off the trail, to let the bikes go by.
The immense clamor suddenly died down, then ceased. Silence fell over the land with a numbing thud. The bikers had evidently stopped just a few yards down the trail. Greg shot me a sour look, motioned with his head up the sloping trail, and began walking. Mike and I followed, scuffling through the silence. I realized that had the bikers been simply fellow backpackers, resting along the trail so near to us, we would probably not hesitate to go back to talk. The immense isolation of the high country usually fosters a comradeship among strangers. Now I felt nothing but irritation. It seemed as if I was walking up a city street, with all its ugly congestion and noise. I glanced back down the trail and nearly tripped over a sapling blocking my path.
The cold drizzle had stopped, but the trail was dotted with muddy pools. Up ahead, Mike was mumbling. He was saying he knew of a way to slow down the motorbikes.
"If we dragged a few of these big logs across the trail" he said, "they'd have to stop and drag them away. It might not stop ‘em, but it would sure make 'em uncomfortable! like they've made us.”
I shook my head ; piling log barricades on the trail wouldn't work. The bikers would start moving again any time now, and they were no more than ten minutes behind us. Besides, dragging logs was too much work. Skirting a puddle, Greg made a crack about how you can't fight the machine age. He froze in his tracks, and pointed up the trail. There, poised in the path 15 feet from us, stood an enormous buck staring back at us in majestic silence. His crown of antlers brushed the boughs of an overhanging cedar. He sniffed the air, and the flash of his white-tipped tail told us he had caught our scent. Yet he remained, seemingly transfixed, as we were at him. Mike slowly began to remove his camera; this picture would be one-of-a-kind. Just as he set his focus, a furious metallic rasp rolled up from below. The buck vanished. Mike spat a curse. I swung down my pack and crouched beside the trail. We would let the machines pass.
After a few long minutes of growing thunder, the first bike skidded around the bend below, the spinning rear wheel gouging the trail. The rider wore a red helmet with a mud-spattered visor. He looked a part of his machine, yet when he saw us he raised his hand in salute. I nodded, unsmiling. He carefully avoided the long puddle that covered half the trail and shot past. The roar was deafening. Two more bikes appeared, churning toward us. A child clung to the back of one, bumping over the protruding roots. They too «skirted the mud puddle and rounded the turn above us. Still the din did not subside. In a few moments a fourth biker boomed into view, gunning his machine to catch up. He flew up the trail, and when his front tire hit the roots it became airborne. He swerved to steady his bike splashing through the puddle and casting up gushers of dirty water. Mike, lounging against a stump, was caught in the shower. He swore loudly, but was drowned out in the roar. The biker, either ignorant of what he had done or too embarrassed to stop, sped up the trail and was gone.
Exhaust smoke hung in the air. Greg looked at me, shaking his head. Mike was cursing bitterly. The camera hanging from his neck was dripping sludgy water. The lens had been scratched, and the delicate focusing mechanism was clogged with silt. If it wasn't ruined, it would at least be an expensive repair job, A chilly mist enveloped us while we waited for Mike to wipe down his camera and change his shirt, In the distance the motorcycles were audible, biting into the mountainside on the last steep climb to the lake. When we pushed on again my mood was black, The rain was heavy now, filtering down through the firs, splattering my poncho, Ahead lay the prospect of making a soggy camp, and of hearing the bikers ride around the lake, My lower back ached dully, We said little as we labored up the ridge, Mike in the lead, Greg and I some distance behind. I hoped Mike's wrath was subsiding, though I realized he wasn't the type for angry confrontations, When I looked up the trail he had disappeared, shrouded in the mist, Then I saw him through the overhanging boughs; at his feet a good-sized log lay at an angle across the trail, "Maybe this will let them know how we feel about them," he said to Greg, I kicked at the heavy, moss-covered log and tiredly stepped over it, perhaps he was right, I thought. It was nearly five when we reached the lake, The rain was lighter now, but thick, dark clouds hung like smoke overhead, Making our way to a dreary clearing near the shore, we began stringing up plastic sheets, The bikers camp was already set up across the lake, their four cycles parked in a circle around a fire, as if they were expecting an attack, But at least the machines weren't running. I looked at the small lake, surrounded by stunted cedars, and wondered why I had spent nearly a full day getting to this place, It seemed a big waste, A cold trickle of rain ran down my neck, and I ducked under the plastic, We ate an undercooked meal that night and went to bed early, with the splat of rain on our plastic interrupting the silence. Saturday morning Mike and Greg headed out on a 3 mile excursion to Icicle Falls, saying they would be back in time for a late lunch, Killing time appealed to me more than hiking, and the monotony of the lonely camp was almost pleasant, Our neighbors across the lake were generally quiet, keeping their bike riding to a minimum, Around noon the boy came by walking, on a trip around the lake, He showed me a camera lens cap he had found on the trail, asking if it belonged to any of us, With a slightly sour grin I took it, remembering that Mike had lost his, I debated whether I should tell Mike now about his found lens cap, but I decided his temper might not stand the strain, I would tell him when we reached the car, when maybe he could laugh about it, I thanked the boy and he left, walking quickly under a darkening sky.
Around two o'clock, as the wind blew harder under a churning overcast, I began to worry about Mike and Greg, They should have been back by now. And a storm was obviously brewing, A motorcycle started up across the lake! and I was suddenly struck by the thought that with a bike it would be an easy half-hour up to the falls, If Mike or Greg were hurt or something, those noisy machines would come in handy, But I just couldn't picture Mike being carted down the trail, bumping along on the back of a bike, I threw a log on the fire, deciding to walk a ways up the trail that led to the falls.
The wind was whipping the lake into a froth as I walked along, The falls trail started across the lake, near the bikers' camp, Halfway around the lake, I saw a biker speeding toward me' The engine noise was almost drowned out by the wind, The rider was pointing back across the lake, and I glanced back, A ragged flame licked up against the gloom, our camp was burning!
The bike skidded to a stop in front of me, The rider slapped the rear seat, and I climbed on, We shot along the rocky trail, Ahead I saw the fire, feeding on the wind and the plastic sheets. We were there in an instant, dragging the flaming plastic to the lake and drenching the sheets, the wind had evidently blown the sheets down into the campfire, but they were the only casualties; our tent was scorched but undamaged.
"Lucky we got here before the tent went up," the biker said, peering through his tinted visor.
“Yeah” I said, “And thanks for the ride, you can sure handle that bike”
About an hour later Mike and Greg wandered in. They had decided to hike up above the falls, and it had taken longer than they thought, I told them about the fire, but they seemed more interested in fixing lunch, I was irritated, feeling dumb that I had worried about them, A wind-blown drizzle began to fall, dampening all our spirits, The rain continued into the night, and we decided to hike out as early as possible Sunday morning.
Under a high white sky, no longer raining but cold, we fought the morning chill as we stuffed our packs, Mike was determined to at least beat the bikers off the lake, and we started down by seven-thirty, After a mile on the trail we heard the familiar grind of the motorbikes as one after another revved up in the distance, Soon the intense roar was upon us again, and we stepped off the trail to let them pass, As before, the leader raised his arm to us as his machine flashed past, the boy clinging to the back of his seat. We watched, humbled by the noise, as the procession passed. Then we resumed our slow journey downward.
A few moments later the bikers' roar seemed to diminish, then died, Ahead of me, Greg shifted into a clumsy run, A thought raced into my mind and I too quickened my pace. Rounding a turn, my empty stomach suddenly felt burdened by oppressive weight, Three bikes littered the trail before me; the fourth was smashed against a tree five yards off to the left, Four of the riders knelt in a circle near the twisted machine, One of the men held his arm, His jacket was ripped and muddy, At his feet lay the boy, sobbing softly.
"It's his leg," someone said, and then the talk died down,
I looked at the log laying in the trail, a chunk gouged out of its surface. I stood there in silence a silence that roared in my ears.
These are scanned and OCRed stories I had saved from old magazines from the seventies, many are from mags which have ceased publishing for decades. This is probably the best place to put these stories since many of them have what is known as vintage bikes today but were current then. I have sent one story on a forum once and one of the bikes mentionned was only dubbed the "beeza" well no one knew what it was, made me feel old :roll: 