Eastern Sierra Nevada

The Majestic Eastern Sierra Nevada: A Natural Barrier and Inspiration for Pioneers and Conservationists

“Between every two pine trees, there is a door leading to a new way of life.” – John Muir

The 400-mile (645 kilometers) long mountain range running along the east side of California is called the Sierra Nevada, which in Spanish means “snow-covered mountains,” a name given by the original Spanish explorers. Its magnificent skyline and spectacular landscapes make it one of the most beautiful physical features of the United States. It is the home of the giant sequoias, an essential water and power source, and was the epicenter of the gold rush period.

Geographically, it sits between the Pacific Ocean to the west and the high desert to the east. The peaks range from 11,000 to 14,000 feet (3,350 to 4,270 meters), with Mount Whitney at 14,505 feet (4,421 meters)—the highest peak in the contiguous United States.

When I drive on Highway 395, along the east side of the Sierra, I imagine the caravans of pioneers in the 1850s coming through the high desert to face the daunting task of crossing this natural barrier on their long journey to California. What a scary hurdle! A testament to their stamina and spirit, this is the stuff that makes myths and legends. Was it like a voyage to a promised land?

I also think about John Muir, a man who hiked these mountains most of his life and penned his experiences, inspiring the creation of the conservation movement. He was the founder of the Sierra Club (1892) and helped motivate President Teddy Roosevelt to establish Yosemite National Park. I think of him as a great example of someone who used the power of words to move and shape history for the better.

2026: From Los Angeles to the Eastern Sierra Along Highway 395

I left Los Angeles around 8 in the morning. The city was still quiet, not fully awake. There is a softness to that hour, a brief window when movement feels unforced.

As I drove north on the 405 and later the 5, the density slowly gave way. Nothing dramatic. Just a gradual opening. The road stretched, and with it, something in me loosened.

Antelope Valley – Where the Poppies Appear

By the time I reached Antelope Valley, the sun had risen enough for the poppies to open.

They do not bloom on command. They wait. The right rain, the right warmth. Seeds that have been in the ground for years suddenly decide, together, that this is the moment.

I saw them spread across the hills in patches, not uniform, not as dense as during my last visit during COVID. Orange moving through the landscape like a quiet current.

Up close, I leaned in. The petals were thin, almost translucent, catching the light.

I noticed how low everything was. Nothing reaching upward. You have to bend, slow down, come closer.

Along Highway 395 – The Long Line North

Driving north on 395, the road became steady and almost hypnotic.

Long stretches, open space, very little interruption. My thoughts followed the same pattern—less crowded, more spread out.

I started listening to Fela Kuti: Fear No Man podcast series, a 12-part series. More on that in my Death Valley reflections.

There was a kind of clean dryness in the air. Not much scent, just space—the kind that clears something inside without effort.

The farther I went, the more the landscape seemed to strip things down.

Red Rock Canyon – Time Written in Layers

At Red Rock Canyon, the land changed abruptly.

The cliffs rose in front of me, layered in red, white, and soft pink. I stood there looking at formations that were once sediments—lake beds slowly compressed and lifted over millions of years.

I could see the vertical lines where wind and water carved their way down. It felt exposed, like time made visible.

Walking there, I felt the scale of it—not just space, but time. The kind that does not rush, does not need to.

Alabama Hills – Sunset

I arrived in Lone Pine and made the turn west toward the Alabama Hills and Mount Whitney.

When I reached the Alabama Hills, the rock formations immediately reminded me of Joshua Tree National Park—rounded boulders, scattered, shaped in ways that feel familiar.

But here, something shifts.

I followed the dirt road inward, the rocks surrounding me, and then the Sierra mountains appeared, rising steady, holding everything in place.

As the light changed, the peaks caught the sun. A warm glow moved across them while the land around me began to fall into shadow.

I tried to photograph the sunset, but I was facing directly into the sun. The details flattened, the contrast too strong. What I was seeing did not fully translate into the image.

Still, I stayed.

And standing there, I knew I would come back in the morning. To see the first light instead of the last. To watch the same place reveal itself differently.

Some landscapes don’t finish in one visit.

They stay open.

Alabama Hills – Early Morning Return

I came back before sunrise.

The air was cold, sharper than the evening before. The same rocks were there, unchanged, but everything felt different. In the early light, nothing is fully defined. The shapes are softer, the edges quieter.

I watched as the first light touched the peaks. It did not arrive all at once. It moved slowly, almost carefully, across the mountains. The snow caught it first, then the ridges, turning from gray to a deep orange.

The rocks in front of me stayed in shadow a little longer. They held the night while the mountains woke.

Standing there, I felt the difference between sunset and sunrise. Sunset closes. Sunrise opens.

The photographs came easier in that light. The contrast softened, the details returned. The land revealed itself instead of resisting.

It felt like I was finally seeing the place the way it wanted to be seen.

Manzanar – A Different Kind of Landscape

Manzanar War Relocation Center

Driving north on 395, I passed Manzanar again. I had seen it before, many times, from the road. This time I stopped.

At first, it does not appear dramatic. A long, simple structure. Open land. The Sierra rising behind it, as they always do.

But as I walked closer, something shifted.

The fence drew my attention first. Rough wood, uneven lines, holding wire in place. It felt fragile, almost improvised, yet it marked a boundary that once defined people’s lives.

The barracks stood quiet, reconstructed but still carrying weight. The ground around them was bare, dry, exposed. No cover, no softness. The wind moved through it without obstruction.

There was a stillness, but not a peaceful one.

During World War II, more than 10,000 Japanese Americans were brought here—most of them U.S. citizens. Following Executive Order 9066, they were removed from their homes and placed in camps like this one, surrounded by barbed wire and guard towers. What appears today as open land was once a place of confinement, of lives interrupted and held in suspension.

In one of the images, the mountains rise sharply behind the buildings, snow still holding on. The contrast is difficult to ignore. Beauty behind, confinement in front.

And then the tree—blooming, almost out of place. A sudden presence of life and color in a landscape that holds memory of something much heavier.

I felt a kind of tension standing there. Not something loud, not something that demands reaction. More like an undercurrent.

An atmosphere of humiliation, of displacement. People placed here, exposed, watched, reduced.

The space does not explain itself. It does not guide you toward a conclusion.

It leaves you there, to feel what remains.

East of 395 – Where Lake Owens Used to Be

At some point, I turned off Highway 395 and drove east.

The shift was immediate. The road gave way to open land—wide, quiet, almost empty. And yet not empty at all.

Where Owens Lake once held water, there is now a flat stretch of earth, pale and dry. Hard to imagine it as a lake. Boats, birds, movement across water.

Now, a herd of cows moves slowly across the basin.

Black shapes against a faded field. Scattered, but together. No urgency. Just grazing, step by step, as if time here has loosened its grip.

A fence cuts across the foreground. Simple wire, metal posts. A line that separates, but does not feel absolute. Beyond it, the land stretches without resistance.

The Sierra rises in the distance, still holding snow. Sharp, clear, almost untouched. The contrast is quiet but strong. Up there, water held in cold stillness. Down here, a lake that no longer exists.

I drove a bit further in.

Dry brush, low shrubs, twisted branches. Some trees still standing, others fallen, their limbs scattered and bleached. It felt like a place that had gone through something and stayed that way.

Not abandoned. Just changed.

There is no clear marker that tells the story. No sign that insists on remembering.

But the absence is there.

Water removed. Life reorganized. What remains is a different rhythm. Slower. More exposed.

I stood there for a while, looking out toward the mountains.

Trying to hold both images at once—what was, and what is.

And feeling how easily one can replace the other.

Buttermilk Boulders – Balance and Tension

My last stop was the Buttermilk Boulders.

They appear suddenly—massive, rounded stones resting on the slope as if placed there, not formed. Some sit alone, others lean into each other, holding a quiet tension. Their surfaces are rough, marked by time, wind, and touch.

Walking among them, I felt scale in a different way. Not the vast openness of the valley, but something more immediate. Physical. Grounded.

Then I noticed the climbers.

A man suspended under a large overhang, his body stretched, holding himself against gravity on small points of contact. Hands searching, feet pressing, the whole body engaged. Below him, others stood close, arms raised, ready to catch if needed.

There was focus in the air. Not noise, not rush. Just attention.

The rock demanded presence. No distraction, no drifting. Every move mattered. Every shift of weight, every breath.

Watching them, I felt the contrast again—these massive, unmoving forms, and the fragile, precise effort of a human body trying to move across them.

A kind of dialogue between stillness and motion.

Toward the Sierra – Turned Back

From there, I drove west on Highway 168 toward the Sierra.

The road began to climb, slowly at first, then more steadily. The mountains moved closer, the air cooled, the light sharpened. I thought I might reach one or two lakes.

But winter was not done.

At a certain point, the road closed. No way through. Snow still holding the higher ground.

I stopped for a moment, looking ahead. Not frustrated. Just aware.

Some places are not available yet.

Some things remain closed until they are ready.

Return to Bishop

I turned back and drove down toward Bishop.

The light was softer now. The same road, but a different direction, a different feeling.

There was a quiet sense of completion. Not everything reached, not everything seen—but enough.

I carried the images with me.

Stone, water that is no longer there, mountains holding snow, and the brief effort of a human body against gravity.

For that day, it was enough.

2021: Exploring the Sierra Mountains Through Highway 395 and Beyond

“In the desert, don’t stray away from the trail; it’s always smarter.” – Bedouin Proverb

The disturbing COVID cloud was finally fading, and it was time to take a breath of fresh air and do more than just morning walks outdoors—so we went. Our week-long exploration followed Highway 395, a spectacular road that runs east of and parallels the Sierra Mountains. On one side: jagged, snow-dusted peaks; on the other: the vast, open desert. The Sierra range holds hundreds of gem-like lakes, miles of fishing streams, and enough hiking trails for a lifetime of wandering. It’s a vast and diverse empire of the wild, filled with potential adventures.

Day 1 – Exploring Red Rocks and Fossil Falls at Big Pine Canyon

“When you sleep in a house, your thoughts are as high as the ceiling; when you sleep outside, they are as high as the stars.” – Bedouin Proverb

We stopped for a quick visit at Red Rock Canyon, where Danna, grounded and graceful, struck a Half-Moon yoga pose atop a desert rock. The ochre cliffs behind her, sculpted by time and wind, looked like frozen waves in mid-collapse—a reminder of nature’s unhurried artistry. In that single pose, with one hand balancing on stone and the other reaching toward the sky, she became a bridge between stillness and motion, between the ancient earth below and the open heavens above. It was as if the landscape had breathed her into its rhythm.

From there, we wandered through Fossil Falls, a place where water once danced violently through basalt canyons. The river is long gone, but the story it carved remains—in smooth black lava and hollowed bowls, in the quiet echo of a waterfall that now lives only in the imagination.

By evening, we reached our cabin at Glacier Lodge, nestled in Big Pine Canyon. Its weathered wood and patchwork roof stood in quiet contrast to the grandeur behind it—the white-tipped Sierra Nevada rising like a cathedral of stone. The cabin felt like a portal to a slower time. A creaky porch, a single blue camping chair, and the scent of pine in the air. Once a mountain jewel in the 1940s, the lodge has aged with dignity. The new owners, a young couple from Orange County, are slowly bringing it back to life. But for now, its rustic charm remains untouched, offering shelter, silence, and a place to simply be.

Day 2 – Meeting Jim along the North Fork Big Pine Creek Trail

“I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.” – John Muir

The North Fork Big Pine Creek Trail rises steadily toward the Palisade Glacier—the southernmost glacier in the United States—hidden like a silver secret above a string of alpine lakes named simply: First through Seventh. We promised ourselves we’d return one day to reach those remote turquoise waters. But on this trip, we turned around at Chaney’s Cabin, tucked quietly in the forest. Once owned by silent film star Lon Chaney and designed by the visionary Black architect Paul Revere Williams, the cabin felt like a small monument to forgotten brilliance—weathered wood holding stories within its frame.

That day, under a blue so rich it felt painted on, we climbed slowly through the sage and pine, our steps light and breath deep. The jagged ridgeline ahead shimmered in the morning sun—a spine of granite stretching into the sky, as captured in one of the photos we took that morning. The trail was quiet except for a few hikers—each of us small specks in the vast stillness.

It’s one of nature’s paradoxes: in places of great silence, strangers speak more freely. Away from the buzz of cities and phones, a simple hello can become an invitation. That’s how we met Jim.

A retired Navy SEAL captain, he was hiking with purpose, keeping fit to wear his Navy Class A uniform to his son’s Coast Guard Academy graduation. As we walked together, he shared stories—about discipline, devotion, and the weight of legacy. He spoke with pride of his other son, who served in a Navy submarine. His words, like his stride, were steady and grounded. There was something solid about him—like a man shaped by the same mountains he now climbed.

A few weeks later, Jim sent us a photo. In it, he’s standing tall in his dress whites, flanked by his son and the President of the United States at the graduation ceremony. The moment radiates pride. Three figures, one generation honoring another, framed by flags and ceremony. It’s more than a family photo—it’s a portrait of service, lineage, and love for country.

Meeting Jim reminded me of the deeper connections travel can uncover—not just with place, but with people. Sometimes, in the middle of nowhere, we’re reminded of exactly what matters.

Day 3 – Hiking to Loch Leven Lake

“Only by going alone in silence, without baggage, can one truly get into the heart of the wilderness. All other travel is mere dust and hotels and baggage and chatter.” – John Muir

The trail to Loch Leven Lake begins deep within Piute Canyon, climbing steadily toward sky and snow. At 10,700 feet (3,261 meters), the air grows thin, the trees grow sparse, and the silence thickens. We followed the winding path of switchbacks, each one drawing us deeper into that quiet place John Muir so often wrote about—the true heart of the wilderness.

About halfway up, we came to a fallen tree bridging a stream, its bark worn smooth by time and travelers. Danna stepped carefully across, walking stick in hand, arms gently stretched for balance. I paused to take a photo—her silhouette framed by pines and the golden water rushing below. It felt like a moment out of time, a balance not just of body but of spirit, the kind of pause the forest invites if we’re willing to slow down.

We reached the lake early in the afternoon, just as the sun tipped directly above us. Loch Leven revealed itself like a hidden sapphire—small and deep, a football-field-sized bowl of cobalt ringed by snow-covered granite. The surrounding cliffs, still clinging to winter, reflected bright light into the water, making the whole scene shimmer like glass.

There, in that silent amphitheater of rock and water, we celebrated the only way that felt right: with smoked salmon from Trader Joe’s and slices of fresh grapefruit—earthy salt meeting citrus spark. It was absurdly delicious, the kind of meal that feels like a feast simply because of where you’re sitting.

We snapped a selfie by the lake, faces flushed from the climb and the crisp alpine air. Danna’s laugh rose into the stillness, echoing off the slopes like birdsong. Her joy, unfiltered and full, was the perfect contrast to the stoic beauty around us. I smiled beside her, sunglasses fogging slightly, both of us wrapped in wind, light, and the simple thrill of being very much alive.

Days 4 and 5 – The Healing Waters of Keough and Benton Hot Springs

In the old days, the locations of natural hot springs were passed along quietly—shared only through local whispers and hand-drawn maps. But times have changed. Now, most of them are on Google Maps with reviews and hashtags. Still, soaking in hot, mineral-rich water under open skies feels like slipping into an older rhythm, a slower pace of being.

We spent two restorative days doing just that.

Our first stop was Keough Hot Springs, located just south of Bishop. Built in 1919, it’s a large swimming pool fed by hot spring water, cooled by a waterfall misting system that brought me straight back to the Culver City Plunge of my childhood. Kids played under the spray, couples floated lazily along the rope lines, and I could feel the tightness of the previous days’ hikes begin to dissolve. The turquoise blue paint of the pool buildings glowed brightly against the dry, rocky hills behind them, adding a nostalgic charm to the experience. It was retro in the best way—like summer camp for grownups.

Next, we made our way to Benton Hot Springs, a place that could only be described as equal parts funky, remote, and oddly luxurious. Tucked into the edge of a ghost town, the inn offers a variety of accommodations, from rustic rooms to campsites—each with its own private soaking tub. The tubs are eclectic—round, square, elevated, or nestled into stone—each one architecturally unique and surrounded by trees and sagebrush. Our tub sat under a canvas shade and overlooked open desert toward the White Mountains. The water was so hot we had to temper it with a hose before slipping in, but once we found that sweet spot, time stopped. The only sounds were the occasional birdsong and the wind rustling through cottonwoods.

Benton, once a booming supply town for silver miners in the late 1800s, now hums quietly with the ghosts of that era. Like Tecopa Hot Springs in California or Kennecott in Alaska, it’s one of those places that caught fire during the mining booms, only to be mostly abandoned when the treasure ran out. If you’re lucky, such places are preserved as living museums; if not, they’re left to the desert.

👉 Watch this short video of Benton Hot Springs

While lounging in the shade near the soaking pools, we connected with Dave, a retired high school history teacher and basketball coach traveling with his mother. He looked every bit the California outdoorsman—sun-hatted, calm-eyed, deeply tanned. In our short conversation, I could almost hear him saying, “Mom, you’ve been locked down all year. Let’s go somewhere.” He spoke warmly of his family, their long roots in Central California, and his deep love for this land—its geology, its forgotten towns, its stories. He reminded me how history lives not only in books and museums, but in people—especially those who carry it gently, like Dave, as both memory and responsibility.

Day 6 – The Fight for Mono Lake: Protecting California’s Ecosystem

From the overlook above Mono Lake, the vast expanse stretches eastward, flat and dry, until it meets the jagged teeth of the Eastern Sierra. The clouds float above the white-capped peaks like slow-moving thoughts. We stood quietly, taking in the view—dusty sage in the foreground, distant waters shimmering like a mirage. It was a breathtaking sight, but also a sobering one.

Mono Lake is an ancient inland sea with no outlet. Water flows in, mostly from the Sierra Nevada snowpack, but it never flows out. What doesn’t seep into the ground evaporates, leaving behind salts and minerals that, over thousands of years, have turned the lake’s waters into a unique, alkaline world—2.5 times saltier than the ocean, with a pH of 10.

👉 What differentiates alkaline water?

And yet, this harshness gives life. Millions of migratory and nesting birds are drawn to its ecosystem—fed by algae, clouds of alkali flies, and dense populations of microscopic brine shrimp. It’s a place where extremes coexist—salty water, fragile beauty, deep time. In recognition of its significance, Mono Basin was designated a National Forest Scenic Area in 1994.

One Last Oasis

In 1941, as Los Angeles expanded its aqueduct system, four of the six mountain streams that fed Mono Lake were diverted south into the city’s growing water grid. Without its natural inflow, the lake began to shrink. Over the next forty years, its volume was halved and the water level dropped nearly fifty vertical feet. As the shoreline receded, salty dust storms blew through the basin, affecting air quality, wildlife, and human health alike. Entire habitats collapsed—fisheries vanished, bird populations declined.

The haunting beauty of this place—now clearly visible from the pullout on Highway 395—masked the urgent question: what would it take to save it?

Searching for a Solution

In 1978, a group of citizens led by the newly formed Mono Lake Committee began asking exactly that. They argued that Mono Lake was not just a water source, but a public trust—something held in stewardship for all people and all life. In a landmark decision, the California Supreme Court ruled in 1983 that the Public Trust Doctrine applied to Mono Lake. It stated:

“The human and environmental uses of Mono Lake… deserve to be taken into account. Such uses should not be destroyed because the state mistakenly thought itself powerless to protect them.” – California Supreme Court, 1983

A decade later, on September 28, 1994, the state designated the Mono Basin as a National Forest Scenic Area, aiming to restore the lake to an elevation of 6,392 feet—estimated to take 20 years.

The Future

As of 2021, the lake’s surface hovers around 6,381 feet—still eleven feet below the target, but nineteen feet higher than at its lowest point in 1994. Climate change has complicated predictions. Drought cycles, rising temperatures, and altered snowpack patterns all interfere with nature’s ability to recover on a human timeline.

Still, there’s hope. Because a place like Mono Lake reminds us what’s at stake—not just water or wilderness, but the stories and lives intertwined with them. From distant birds to local communities, from Supreme Court decisions to quiet viewpoints along the highway, it’s all connected. One last oasis, still fighting to survive.

👉 You can also explore my reflections on Tecopa Hot Springs and Death Valley—two soulful desert landscapes not far from here.

May 2021