Coming down from Constance Lake, I looked off east over a basin of marshy grass and meandering streams that lies to the south of Lake Mildred. With the sun behind I saw a shelf bare and grey above the meadows, smooth and sere, seeming lifeless, moon dust shoulder of Mount Baldwin. Not on my map, narrow but clear, a path come up from unseen switchbacks reached the shelf and ran across it, straight and lonely, leading north. But back of the trail under Baldwins cliffs a mound of scree at the mouth of a cleft glinted like broken glass in the sun, or sparks of water on a wet slope.
No time that day to take a detour; another year I would know to look in the wide meadow walking above Mildred for a faint trail to follow upward past the wreck of a ruined cabin, finding the dusty desolate plain, the broken crystals and Bright Dot Lake.