Come summer, Armen was itching to wander. He could hardly wait to see golden trout country. By the time summer arrived, he had planned and re-planned his expedition over and over. He would ride his bike into Sequoia National Park on roads that followed the old Hockett Trail, and once he ran out of road he would hike up the trail itself. He’d never done anything so challenging, so he asked Sam to accompany him. He would feel more secure with his friend at his side. Sam was reluctant to go on such a long, unprecedented trip, but after hearing Armen extol the virtues of the golden trout and its home range, Sam finally capitulated.
Smoke on the Range — Jewel Samad
They set out on a balmy summer morning, riding south a mile, and then turning left and east on the road grid toward the Range. The way was straighter than the crow flies for thirty-one miles from Slough City to the foot of the Range at Yokohl, except for a slight jog at the Highway 99 underpass.
As the heat of the day settled onto the Sink, it saturated the pavement and the feedlots and the fields. Dust devils burst out of the earth here and there, kicking up dirt and bits of debris. The heat made water ever more precious, and the boys found themselves looking for drinking fountains, hose bibs, and markets where they could fill their undersized canteens. They were relieved to have a reason to stop in Visalia. They were in need of equipment, maps, and supplies, so they stopped at an outfitter in town and basked in the air-conditioned breeze.
The human landscape grew more varied around Visalia, and the natural landscape soon took its turn as ghostly hills emerged one-by-one out of the smoke-loaded air.
They call it smog. That’s what they’re told to call it. There’s more of it against the Range because the prevailing winds push it up against the mountain wall. The Range is shrouded in the smoke of myriad fires, such as the little fires tended in the metal cylinders of internal combustion engines.
The term “smog”—meaning “smoke-fog”—doesn’t apply well to this smoke. During the summer months, no fog blankets the feet of the Range. This is no atmospheric inversion. The pollution rises high into the Range. To simplify the matter, we might simply call it smoke if it weren’t such a soup of modern chemicals and byproducts generated in the furnace of the California sun. It’s called “photochemical smog,” but it might just as well be called “sunburned smoke.” It is mostly the smoke of civilization, but the smoky veil of the Range is not merely the mark of man, for a veil of smoke has always formed there. The only difference today is one of density and secondary ingredients.