I learned to love to hike here, took burros to Bishop Pass, and learned to fish for the small and elegant dashing rainbow, stocked for our amusement. Yet still was our wonder engendered, in this virtual shelter compromise place: between power, water, and its silent powerful creation.
Western aspens, small and tough, grow along the plunging diagonal drainages, towards the low place stream bed, alternating chevrons striping the canyon walls with lemon burnt orange slashes of dancing leaves.
Over 20 years of Sierra autumns have accrued to me when I come to see them now.
So easy to forget that the Sierras' scanctity was looted by wily municipal water and power companies who dammed and drained the power for California's southern growth.
South Lake is the damned gem of Bishop Creek Canyon. Today I find it almost drained. Two years of drought conditions and water demands legislated and purchased have left a sad portion of the once sparkling bountifully full lake. Its water is pumped to distribute to the Bishop Cone, Los Angeles swimming pools, and stream flows to maintain fish populations.
It's ghastly to see the ramparts of of the dam, white concrete matching the granite bouldered lake bed, so stripped, so sêche, not even dried water plants remain. Like seeing thousands of bald heads caused by chemotherapy at once, or your spouse's.
You-Tube has a short video about this small scale shame, with only 27 views. When I think of the Sierra lovers who come here, I'm grieved beyond measure. I guess Americans reason that that snow and rain will come soon again, and this only need be borne short time.
We drive up to North Lake, high and windswept, the aspen groves stripped of gold, and winter nearing. It is full and lovely yet, too distant to drain and receive the elusive promises of replenishment the Chandler Decree protects.
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