I live in Clovis, California, a small city at the base of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The town slogan is GATEWAY TO THE SIERRAS! This is no BS made up by the Chamber of Commerce. My front door is only about 350 feet above sea level but an hours worth of driving can get us up above 8,000 feet.

We spend alot of time up in the mountains in the fall. The tourists are all back at school or work, but the weather is usually pretty mild up until Halloween. You cant take anything for granted up in the high country though.

A couple of years ago we took a nice November day trip up above Shaver Lake. The weather in Clovis was fine, but by the time we got up to Tamarack Ridge, things had turned gray and windy. We were dressed for it though and we didnt let it spoil our fun. We hiked a couple miles in to a favorite little lake and broke out the wine and cheese.

The cold sneeks in on you. First you notice the tip of your nose is numb. You zip everything up and go look for some firewood. We're locals, this is our backyard. Nothing can happen to us. Your hands are only shaking a little bit as you snap the small twigs into kindling. The bigger sticks sting when you break them over your knee. The wind blows the first match out, then the second.The altitude and dropping temperature have turned simple annoyance into mild concern.

Soon we have a fine blaze going though, and we huddle close and sip red wine from small plastic cups through chattering teeth. Home is only an hour or so away, what could go wrong? We enjoy the deep forest silence broken only by the fires piney snap, crackle and pop.

The first dry wispy snowflake of the year lands on Jet's face. Hey its snowing! We spread our arms and lift our faces to the sky and for some reason open our mouths and stick out our tongues.It takes awhile but eventually a flake or two finds its way there. We kiss and notice there is alot of snow on our hair and clothes. Yeah its time to go.

Mrs. Sepulveda is a strict disciple of Smokey the Bear though and first makes me walk down to the lake and fill our collapsable bucket up with water to drown our fire. Then she makes me do it again. "Dead out mister" she says. She has packed up our picnic and folded our chairs. The snow is coming down good now with the ground turning white.

We hike up from the lake and follow the trail back into the trees. Here it's darker but only a few random flakes find their way down through to us and the ground is dry for now.

Then we climb again, eventually to the top of the ridge and out of the trees. The snow is coming down sideways up here, thick, wet and driven by the wind. For some reason we both start laughing. Its good hearty laughter with just a trace of nervousness. You can afford such laughter when your car is less than a mile away and you know your way back beyond a shadow of a doubt. A couple hours later, we were drinking wine in our steaming hot bathtub toasting the first real snow of the year. God knows we needed it.

This last November we were up in the Sierra National Forest, down lower this time about 4,000 feet. The weather in Clovis was fine, and by the time we got up into Blue Canyon things were still pretty pleasant. The forecasters said we stood a good chance of rain but we were'nt too concerned. We had another perfect day. We started a small fire at dusk,with hot dogs and roasted marshmellows washed down with cheap Cabernet. Everything was just fine until we were alerted to the approaching storm by the ripples in the creek.

As we were getting packed up to go, I heard some blood curdling howling off in the distance. "Stay off the moors!" I joked in a lame Scottish brogue. Mrs Sepulveda was getting water out of the creek to drown the fire. A few minutes later, more howling, closer too. "Hey honey we better get going it's really starting to rain and those dogs are creeping me out."

"Hold your horses we're not leaving till this fire's dead out you big...wuss"

In my defense I must say all howling in the wilderness at dusk is blood curdling,
the rain was coming down and I didn't want to get stuck in the mud on the way out of the canyon. I began to detect the faint rattle of a diesel engine mingled with the howling. I touched my pistol in it's holster and tried not to think about Ned Beatty.

Eventually a white pickup truck came around the bend of the road above the creekbed where we were. Two casually bred scent hounds were climbing all over the back of the truck. I noticed the driver was wearing a blaze orange shirt and a green baseball cap. Fresno County Search and Rescue. I'd heard there was a hunter lost up around Dinkey Creek. I looked across the canyon and up the far side to Secata Ridge. It looked cold up there. It was snowing up there. I waved at the guy in the truck. He was going home. The dogs were just blowing off steam.

We made it home about 8:00 that night. We were warm in bed when we heard the first thunderclap and soon the rain was coming down in sheets. The first real storm of the season. God knows we need all the rain and snow we can get but all I could think about was Rob Willis cold and alone if indeed he was still alive up in those hills.