For most of the year, our area's highest peak is a snow-capped, beautiful vision, one that draws skiers and snowboarders who like steep runs in winter and early spring, one that draws a photographer's eye year-round.

This is a shot I took in late July, the view one would see when driving by on the highway.

There is a small window of time during the year though, a very small window this year, when there is no snow, when the mountain road is clear, when the trails are passable on foot. This is an eagerly awaited time for the hikers and mountain bikers who also love to trek and careen along on high mountain trails, as well as those who are just having a lazy Sunday and feel like a drive with some views.

That was us a couple weeks ago when the temperatures were skyrocketing in town:  it was too hot for any of the remodeling projects on our long To Do list, the mountain bikes needed repair, and the will to exert ourselves on a long hike was non-existent.

Youngest suggested the mountain drive as our truck has air conditioning, unlike our house, and we could count on a balmy low eighties up in high country when it's a stifling high nineties in town. We loaded up on water and snacks, camera, dog, kid...and hit the highway south with a right turn up the mountain just before the pass into California.

After twenty-five minutes or so of first, gentle curves, then sharper, more narrow switchbacks, and finally up past the small ski lodge looking forlorn and alone without its cloak of snowdrifts around, we were up in the high country. There was an unusually relaxed feel in the truck as this was a rare jaunt for us without full mountain biking gear, or at least sturdy hiking boots.

Soon we could see the peak from one spot in the road's curve, the hardy, yellow wildflowers dotting the steep meadow's incline.             

A little further on we spotted small cairns left by hikers passing through.

Traffic?

 We take the fork to the right. For the next mile or so up, if we encounter someone driving down, we'll have to back back down to this spot to let them pass. The only other spot in the road wide enough for two vehicles is at the top.

As we head up and curve around to the right, the vistas open up, with the mountain ridges viewed toward the south defined by the hazy telltale smoke from wildfires to the east of us. If the day were more clear, the peak of Mt. Shasta would be visible from here.

I couldn't stop taking pictures, the nuanced changes in beauty as we rolled forward enticing me to try and capture them forever. The view was the best, of course, when I finally put the camera down.

Then, the road stopped. Straight ahead of us, picknickers from British Columbia were taking in the view from the now-visible back side of the ridge, in front of us stood the top of the small resort's sole chair lift, and to the right, the walking trail up to the peak. 

When we stepped out of the car, an older man who looked about seventy, slowed his run to a walk and we exchanged greetings. He had run up the entire mountain road we'd just driven, and was heading over to the Pacific Crest Trail and heading north toward Washington State. Alone.

Alone and running most of the way, he said.

He had the biggest smile on his face, said he sure was loving life. We smiled back, and suddenly he walked right over the lip of a now bare and rocky ski run and began his zig-zag descent down along the ski lift line.

I love how the red of those chairs contrasts with the evergreen background.

That bare, rocky lip of the run is below with the green Siskiyou slopes in the foreground, the golden-brown of the Cascades beyond, hazy through the smoke of the wildfires.  Our town is nestled in the valley in-between those two ranges, with the southern end boxed in by a third range, the Klamath mountains. I love living in the convergence of these three diversely created ranges, although I get confused on where the Klamath range ends and the Siskiyous begin. Even the geologists call these peaks a tangle.

Youngest is trekking off to the left there with our trusty dog, Kona.

The wildfires are a little worrying, they're right near the mountain lake camping spot I posted about last autumn. I hope that beautiful area is spared (it was) as it's a known haven for nesting waterfowl, but the potential for dry season wildfires are part of life for us out here in the west.

The "Upper Tempest" ski run sign is below, posted, er, nailed to a tree on the edge of the run. I tried to imagine twenty feet of snow on top of this extremely steep-looking run (not that visible from this shot), but I must confess I'm not that fond of too much snow and I prefer the summer views of ski slopes.

After a little more wandering around on the ridge, it was time to load up and head back down. School tomorrow, things to do.

We did notice some interesting boulders on the way down, these being on the opposite side of the road from the gorgeous views that took our attention on the way up.  Nice facial profile on the left hand side... 

I took this shot below when I noticed a large, floppy dog ear to the left with eye and snout down the center, but now that fades in the background compared to the beaky gentleman's profile to the left with cap pulled down low over his brow, hunched shoulder in the middle. Youngest spotted a lamb's profile facing right.      

The view of the back side of the ridge as we head down.

I have heard rumors that I can be an annoying companion when I have this camera in hand.

 Wait! What is that glimpse of orange down on the side of the road?

Stop! I'll be just a minute.......it's Frittilaria!  

.....I think it's Frittilaria....what is it doing growing up here I wonder...? 

Such hardiness, growing right in the gravel... 

 Okay, done. Thanks, drive on..." 

 ~ A hundred yards later ~

Wait!

....look at that gorgeous banding,  and the uplift...

Will you stop please? 

 I'll just be a minute......really.

These ancient evergreen-covered mountains were once coastal islands, long before the volcanic golden hills to the east made their presence known. The exposed sedimentary bands showing on the edges of the roadside are like an ancient stonemason's trademark design.

The truck stops and starts for me a couple more times while I admire the prehistoric ocean's artistic layering.

As we wind further down the mountain, back into the valley's late afternoon heat, the truck grows quiet as the conversation fades. The majestic views have been left behind. Apples are pulled out, chips passed around, we contentedly munch as we head home. 

Until next time... 

Update, 10 October 2011:  A foot and a half of snow now blankets this entire area ~ there will be snowpack until next July or August. 

*sigh*

 Good for the reservoirs though....