So it transpired:
Having crossed the formidable Haeckel Col, I descended into Evolution Basin, the descent steep but manageable, until the path eased and I strode contentedly upon more level ground. My spirits were high, for the scenery was magnificent, the air pure, and my body, though weary, rejoiced in its freedom. Thus I advanced toward Sapphire Lake.
There, however, I encountered a most peculiar spectacle: a vast encampment of horsepackers sprawled across the entirety of the southern flats of the lake. No fewer than ten, perhaps twenty, tents cluttered the flats, the whole scene an affront to the austere beauty of the wilderness. Believing the camp to be deserted, I ventured forth, only to be suddenly accosted by a fellow clad wholly in black. He ran toward me, shouting with great agitation, “Private Camp! Private Camp!”
Startled, yet maintaining courtesy, I offered him a greeting. At that moment, a woman emerged from a large canvas pavilion and demanded, with suspicion, whether I was “merely passing through.” I responded with levity, suggesting that unless they intended to invite me to supper, I would indeed continue on my way. My remark, however, was met with confusion, perhaps even hostility. Their manner was unfriendly, and to encounter such discourtesy in so grand a setting struck me as strange indeed.
I ask myself now: did I err in traversing their camp? I have always understood these mountains to belong to all who approach them in humility, and I sought nothing more than passage. To detour around would have been an arduous inconvenience. Yet perhaps there exists some unwritten etiquette of the wilderness which I transgressed unwittingly.
I bear no ill will—only bemusement at this curious interruption to my journey. I should be glad to know whether others have faced such encounters amidst the noble solitude of the High Sierra.
