Tonight I will sleep in the White Mountains of east-central California at a high, lonely place aptly called Grand View Campground. At 8000 feet on the western flank of the range, it provides an overview of Owens Valley, and an awesome panorama of the Range of Light, the High Sierra. A small dirt track leads west from the campground through the sage and Pinon Pine to some craggy outcrops distinctly uncomfortable for sitting. I know I will stop there, facing this awesome sweep of altitude, granite and ice, and of time.

I have visited these mountains since I was a little kid. Dad was a geologist, a teacher at the university, and for many summers conducted field camps in this area for his students. Visiting him during those summers introduced me to this country. In 1971, years after dad