Morris Meadow — A Savory Memory

I dream of Morris Meadow nestled in the Trinity Alps.

Now I can only visit in my mind. My legs are too worn to carry me eight miles up the switchback trail. But, before that trail gets steep and arduous, it meanders along the Stuart Fork of the Trinity River. The Stuart Fork is a fast-flowing snow-melt. I always stopped to plunge off its rocky ledge, always twice, once to refresh my body and once to fix the icy embrace in mind for the hot, dry trail ahead.

There is a narrow window of access to Morris Meadow. About five weeks, mid-July to mid-August, after the last snows melt from the meadow floor until you’re likely to tempt an early autumn storm. During that brief interlude, the meadow is alive with waves of knee-high emerald grass, swaying in the breeze, vibrant wildflowers, buzzing insects. The meadow is too damp for sleeping, but under a stand of pine, an excellent campsite awaits. Morris Meadow stretches out before the eyes from that copse of majestic, fragrant pine, hemmed only by the soaring, saw-toothed Trinity Alps.

Where do you find peace?

Many find solace near the ocean.

I have never been more at peace than late at night under a canopy of stars high in the mountains, nestled in Morris Meadow. Here was a sacred site to share with my closest friends and my beloved wife. A place to rejoice in the solitude of nature. Here, I brewed my first pine needle tea, silently read for hours, played chess and backgammon on miniature roll-up boards, and shared many an improvised meal.

Time slows when you leave civilization behind.

The position of the sun marks the passing day. Soon it’s hard to remember the hustle and bustle, the jangle of phones, just hours away. Here is the world as it once was, unsullied by man. Few people mar this valley with their presence. The hike is too grueling, too steep, and too hot. Hiking and horseback are the exclusive passports, rarely have I encountered another soul.

Sapphire Lake is three miles farther up the trail, surrounded by rugged granite peaks, a single pine stand, the sole campsite. Sapphire Lake is the deepest blue and icy cold, a memorable refreshment on a hot summer’s day. On up, about a mile apart, are Emerald and Diamond Lakes, virgin boulder-strewn lakes, high above the tree line, with campsites only for lizards and lovers of rock.

Bears inhabit Morris Meadow. I’ve heard them prowling late at night, even brushing up against the whisper-thin nylon barrier of my tent. They’re scouting for food, and woe is the backpacker who keeps some hidden in his tent. Where bears forage, campsites are best kept pristine, all food suspended high aloft in a faraway tree — bears like snacks too.

My biggest Rainbow catch once cruised the Stuart Fork. Working upstream from one boulder to the next, I came upon a majestic pool high on anticipation. The biggest fish prowl the stream’s mouth, at the inlet where icy waters tumble over rocks roiling into quiet still pools — the pecking order of fish. The biggest snap up the choice meals first.

Moving up behind the tranquil pool, I hooked some smaller fellows but silently released them; admonishing them not to disturb their betters. On my second cast to the top of the pool, I hooked a monster Rainbow on a Mepps#2. I took my time to carefully bring him in, for no one would ever believe his length and girth without the brute in hand.

That was a Rainbow to cherish. Now, only sweet memories remain. I see the deep-blue waters of Sapphire Lake. I picture that meadow, as clear as through glass. I feel the icy embrace of the Stuart Fork as if it were yesterday. I sense the monster Rainbow about to strike my lure. I smell the scent of roasting flesh mingled with the cook fire’s smoky flavor.

But I will never crest that final hill nor glimpse the meadow’s emerald velvet sheen, nor splash in that icy creek. I will never walk that trail again, except for in my dreams.

What adventures do you cherish that are beyond your physical limits today? Please share.