Mount Lassen in Ice
by Thomas Piekarski
1.
It’s mid-June, the country rambunctious on the edge of summer,
millions basking on beaches, firing up barbeques and camping.
In Tucson it’s over a hundred degrees, but here at 8000 feet I’m
frozen. Five miles outside Lassen Park I encounter hail. Uh-oh.
2.
Peter Lassen was a humble Dane. Like many Europeans
he left his native land, emigrated to the wide-open world
on the other side of the pond. Lassen financed his way
as a journeyman blacksmith, from the east coast
onto Missouri. His timing was ripe, the West
practically begging for exploration and settlement.
By then trappers had discovered various routes
across the Rockies and ultimately to California.
3.
Mount Lassen erupted in both 1914 and 1915.
Only St. Helens along the Cascade Range
has gone off since. In previous epochs
Hood and Ranier have both blown
and remain threats to populations that risk
their lives living in those areas. Hunting home
for the Atsugwei, Yana, Maidu and Yahi,
this volatile Lassen terrain was sacred.
4.
What it means to be American, its rivers running
through your heart, groundbreaking entrepreneur,
one in whom the spirit of our nation resides,
willing to take risks, indomitable confidence
brimming. Those explorers and mountain men
who with courage mapped the West’s landscape
won’t be forgotten so long as there is an America.
5.
Hissing steam vents, burbling mud pots, snow flurries.
Heated by molten rock, hot plumes rise. Still, I’m cold.
And sulfur stinks terribly like dozens of rotten eggs.
6.
Excited Lassen boarded the ship Lausanne
on Oregon’s Willamette River in 1840,
landing at Bodega Bay along the California coast.
He reconnoitered at Fort Ross, treated well,
acquired horses and continued on to Sutter’s Fort,
welcomed there by the enterprising and at times
jovial, most magnanimous captain.
7.
At trailhead to the peak, I look up and observe
the entire mountaintop cloaked in ominous clouds.
I shiver thinking of scaling the 2000 feet
from this base to the summit as I once did
with my woman much later in the season.
The switchbacks are wicked, and path quite steep,
one typically having to stop and rest.
Once at the top wonderment becomes
all consuming. With shortness of breath
at 10,450 feet I looked out, scanning panoramic
over countless miles: Nevada east, Mount Shasta
to the north, Sierra peaks protruding southward,
and west the Siskiyou range, impenetrable
to those lacking adequate navigational skills
in the early days. Surely majestic as it can get.
8.
Lassen among the largest plug dome volcanos on Earth.
I’m standing on ground beneath which brews
an enormous roiling cauldron of scathing melted rock
that spans miles. When the legendary Jedediah Smith
passed this mountain en route to Fort Vancouver
he named it Mount Joseph, although
several others had their own designations.
Later it was permanently renamed for the man
who pioneered this habitat, built a rancho,
planted crops and bred animals
after receiving a generous grant
from the Mexican governor.
Always kind to travelers,
even the self-seeking scoundrel Fremont,
Peter established a town he named Benton City
after the much-respected U.S. senator.
9.
Gigantic grinding tectonic plates beneath this place
generate friction and enormous heat that churns,
at sporadic intervals belches searing magma and ash,
Mother Earth’s bowels hurled way up in the sky
sending shock waves throughout pristine forests
and lava that cools into phantasmagoric shapes.
10.
When Lassen arrived in his newly granted acreage
with a nominal herd of cattle and few horses
he was the only white man within miles,
Indian tribes having for centuries populated it.
Near the Sacramento river’s source, rugged, idyllic,
heavily timbered, serene, as of then sheer wilderness.
11.
Hail coats the road with a thin blanket of ice.
I motor slowly around steep, sharp curves.
Emerald Lake under two feet of powder. Trails
to Devils Kitchen and Bumpass Hell impassible
without snowshoes, for which I’m ill-equipped.
12.
On his land in Benton City settlers built cabins
and Lassen a gristmill at Deer Creek. In effort
to further ambitions Peter returned to Missouri,
sold himself as a guide to the land of opportunity.
Upon return he found the township abandoned,
workers all run off to seek gold which had lately
been discovered, fate that also befell Sutter.
Lassen grew weary of life on this isolated outpost
so deeded away most of his land, headed several
miles due east, over the Cascades onto a plain
that is the very western edge of the Great Basin.
There he made his home, selling guide services
to willing travelers anxious to reach waterways
where they thought gold could be plucked
by the bucket. Lassen offered them a shorter route
than they might otherwise elect to travel. But it was
treacherous. Those who employed his assistance
took the risk of living to regret their decision.
13.
Within Lassen Park’s paradise of natural splendor
cohabits a proliferation of wildlife rarely equaled.
Among various creatures we find bobcat, raccoon,
mountain lion, coyote, black bear, fox, weasel, skunk.
Cascade frogs keep up frenetic chatter as I roll
past Kings Creek. The rough-skinned newt
is often noticed in spring crossing trails
and into rushing snowmelt streams.
Boutique lakes at various locations hold trout
in abundance. White-headed woodpecker,
chipmunk, mule deer, mountain chickadee,
dark-eyed junco, pika, golden mantled squirrel,
sagebrush lizard, gray-crowned finch, long-toed
salamander, tortoise shell butterfly, all of these
define an environment in which they flourish.
14.
Peter Lassen’s untimely death remains a mystery,
so upon leaving the park I resolve to seek his gravesite.
He’s buried five miles outside the town of Susanville.
Going there will cause a delay in me getting home
but I’m in no rush, locating that grave a must.
Lassen loved prospecting, never gave it up.
There was yet gold to be had, even this far north.
A strike near Shasta caused that community to swell.
Tales of a mythical Gold Lake somewhere in the area
believed by many. Lassen found the pull irresistible.
As this territory grew there became the need
for administration, law and order, infrastructure,
government. Peter remained constantly involved,
man of stature, dreamer, adventurer, proud founder.
15.
In the hills not far from his home near Honey Lake
along with two partners Peter went prospecting
one fair day, at Black Rock Canyon which is now
in Nevada. Lassen was murdered there along with
a man named Clapper. The third partner Wyatt
escaped, hurried to Honey Valley and reported
that they were ambushed by Paiutes. But relations
with local Indians remained civil, so no motive
for them to kill made sense. Yet all these years
it has been the accepted explanation. Perhaps
Wyatt himself murdered them. Who knows?
16.
The gravesite located down a country road
through gentle meandering hills green as you’ll see.
Though quite a ways from the park, it’s bitterly cold
but no hailstones or snowflakes, just a few raindrops.
Parking barely adequate, though I manage to squeeze in
and walk beneath a metal arch with a big wooden sign
above it that in bold letters is carved one word, LASSEN.
Through an iron turnstile and across a brief glade
I arrive at a perfectly level, massive stone slab
upon which is mounted a ten-foot tall
polished granite obelisk
with these stark words chiseled into its base:
In Memory of
Peter Lassen
The Pioneer Who
Was Killed By
The Indians
April 26, 1859
Aged 66 Years
It’s mid-June, the country rambunctious on the edge of summer,
millions basking on beaches, firing up barbeques and camping.
In Tucson it’s over a hundred degrees, but here at 8000 feet I’m
frozen. Five miles outside Lassen Park I encounter hail. Uh-oh.
2.
Peter Lassen was a humble Dane. Like many Europeans
he left his native land, emigrated to the wide-open world
on the other side of the pond. Lassen financed his way
as a journeyman blacksmith, from the east coast
onto Missouri. His timing was ripe, the West
practically begging for exploration and settlement.
By then trappers had discovered various routes
across the Rockies and ultimately to California.
3.
Mount Lassen erupted in both 1914 and 1915.
Only St. Helens along the Cascade Range
has gone off since. In previous epochs
Hood and Ranier have both blown
and remain threats to populations that risk
their lives living in those areas. Hunting home
for the Atsugwei, Yana, Maidu and Yahi,
this volatile Lassen terrain was sacred.
4.
What it means to be American, its rivers running
through your heart, groundbreaking entrepreneur,
one in whom the spirit of our nation resides,
willing to take risks, indomitable confidence
brimming. Those explorers and mountain men
who with courage mapped the West’s landscape
won’t be forgotten so long as there is an America.
5.
Hissing steam vents, burbling mud pots, snow flurries.
Heated by molten rock, hot plumes rise. Still, I’m cold.
And sulfur stinks terribly like dozens of rotten eggs.
6.
Excited Lassen boarded the ship Lausanne
on Oregon’s Willamette River in 1840,
landing at Bodega Bay along the California coast.
He reconnoitered at Fort Ross, treated well,
acquired horses and continued on to Sutter’s Fort,
welcomed there by the enterprising and at times
jovial, most magnanimous captain.
7.
At trailhead to the peak, I look up and observe
the entire mountaintop cloaked in ominous clouds.
I shiver thinking of scaling the 2000 feet
from this base to the summit as I once did
with my woman much later in the season.
The switchbacks are wicked, and path quite steep,
one typically having to stop and rest.
Once at the top wonderment becomes
all consuming. With shortness of breath
at 10,450 feet I looked out, scanning panoramic
over countless miles: Nevada east, Mount Shasta
to the north, Sierra peaks protruding southward,
and west the Siskiyou range, impenetrable
to those lacking adequate navigational skills
in the early days. Surely majestic as it can get.
8.
Lassen among the largest plug dome volcanos on Earth.
I’m standing on ground beneath which brews
an enormous roiling cauldron of scathing melted rock
that spans miles. When the legendary Jedediah Smith
passed this mountain en route to Fort Vancouver
he named it Mount Joseph, although
several others had their own designations.
Later it was permanently renamed for the man
who pioneered this habitat, built a rancho,
planted crops and bred animals
after receiving a generous grant
from the Mexican governor.
Always kind to travelers,
even the self-seeking scoundrel Fremont,
Peter established a town he named Benton City
after the much-respected U.S. senator.
9.
Gigantic grinding tectonic plates beneath this place
generate friction and enormous heat that churns,
at sporadic intervals belches searing magma and ash,
Mother Earth’s bowels hurled way up in the sky
sending shock waves throughout pristine forests
and lava that cools into phantasmagoric shapes.
10.
When Lassen arrived in his newly granted acreage
with a nominal herd of cattle and few horses
he was the only white man within miles,
Indian tribes having for centuries populated it.
Near the Sacramento river’s source, rugged, idyllic,
heavily timbered, serene, as of then sheer wilderness.
11.
Hail coats the road with a thin blanket of ice.
I motor slowly around steep, sharp curves.
Emerald Lake under two feet of powder. Trails
to Devils Kitchen and Bumpass Hell impassible
without snowshoes, for which I’m ill-equipped.
12.
On his land in Benton City settlers built cabins
and Lassen a gristmill at Deer Creek. In effort
to further ambitions Peter returned to Missouri,
sold himself as a guide to the land of opportunity.
Upon return he found the township abandoned,
workers all run off to seek gold which had lately
been discovered, fate that also befell Sutter.
Lassen grew weary of life on this isolated outpost
so deeded away most of his land, headed several
miles due east, over the Cascades onto a plain
that is the very western edge of the Great Basin.
There he made his home, selling guide services
to willing travelers anxious to reach waterways
where they thought gold could be plucked
by the bucket. Lassen offered them a shorter route
than they might otherwise elect to travel. But it was
treacherous. Those who employed his assistance
took the risk of living to regret their decision.
13.
Within Lassen Park’s paradise of natural splendor
cohabits a proliferation of wildlife rarely equaled.
Among various creatures we find bobcat, raccoon,
mountain lion, coyote, black bear, fox, weasel, skunk.
Cascade frogs keep up frenetic chatter as I roll
past Kings Creek. The rough-skinned newt
is often noticed in spring crossing trails
and into rushing snowmelt streams.
Boutique lakes at various locations hold trout
in abundance. White-headed woodpecker,
chipmunk, mule deer, mountain chickadee,
dark-eyed junco, pika, golden mantled squirrel,
sagebrush lizard, gray-crowned finch, long-toed
salamander, tortoise shell butterfly, all of these
define an environment in which they flourish.
14.
Peter Lassen’s untimely death remains a mystery,
so upon leaving the park I resolve to seek his gravesite.
He’s buried five miles outside the town of Susanville.
Going there will cause a delay in me getting home
but I’m in no rush, locating that grave a must.
Lassen loved prospecting, never gave it up.
There was yet gold to be had, even this far north.
A strike near Shasta caused that community to swell.
Tales of a mythical Gold Lake somewhere in the area
believed by many. Lassen found the pull irresistible.
As this territory grew there became the need
for administration, law and order, infrastructure,
government. Peter remained constantly involved,
man of stature, dreamer, adventurer, proud founder.
15.
In the hills not far from his home near Honey Lake
along with two partners Peter went prospecting
one fair day, at Black Rock Canyon which is now
in Nevada. Lassen was murdered there along with
a man named Clapper. The third partner Wyatt
escaped, hurried to Honey Valley and reported
that they were ambushed by Paiutes. But relations
with local Indians remained civil, so no motive
for them to kill made sense. Yet all these years
it has been the accepted explanation. Perhaps
Wyatt himself murdered them. Who knows?
16.
The gravesite located down a country road
through gentle meandering hills green as you’ll see.
Though quite a ways from the park, it’s bitterly cold
but no hailstones or snowflakes, just a few raindrops.
Parking barely adequate, though I manage to squeeze in
and walk beneath a metal arch with a big wooden sign
above it that in bold letters is carved one word, LASSEN.
Through an iron turnstile and across a brief glade
I arrive at a perfectly level, massive stone slab
upon which is mounted a ten-foot tall
polished granite obelisk
with these stark words chiseled into its base:
In Memory of
Peter Lassen
The Pioneer Who
Was Killed By
The Indians
April 26, 1859
Aged 66 Years
Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry has appeared in numerous publications, including Taj Mahal Review, Poetry Quarterly, Literature Today, Poetry Salzburg, South African Literary Journal, The Frogmore Papers, and many more. His books of poetry are entitled "Ballad of Billy the Kid," "Monterey Bay Adventures," and "Mercurial World."