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| Max seems to know his fate |
Soon we are on The 210 heading west. The day will be hot, the air is clear, the sky bright. The slopes of the San Gabriels stand out crisp and inviting. We veer north up The 5 under the soaring ramps of The 14 and past the twisting space grids of Magic Mountain. But it's only as we climb the eastern pass over the San Emigdios, that I feel the first hint of freedom. We are going to Yosemite.
Our plan is acclimate a day in Oakhurst and then drive up, across the Valley, to Tuolumne Lodge. We often stop in Oakhurst for gas, groceries and our last reasonably-priced meal. It's a ritual of sorts. Tonight we have reservations at the Hounds Tooth Inn. It's Lilalee's go to place in Oakhurst. It's a bit too floral for my taste, but it makes her happy. I just hope we got one of the affordable rooms.
The drive up the 99 is a dull, hot slog. The road attended by the blackened skeletons of once-lush oleanders, victims of the glassy-winged sharpshooter. The traffic is quarrelsome, the land monotonous. The mountains are out there somewhere in the haze.
We stop in Bakersfield for a buffet at Hodel's. That's what we did on vacations with the Swonks. The kids loved the steamers loaded with mac-and-cheese, mashed potatoes and fried chicken. Best of all was the soft-ice cream machine. Without the kids, the place is bland, institutional and depressing like a feeding trough for the old or unfit. We leave resolving for the umpteenth time never to go again.
The stretch to the Yosemite cutoff is a time warp. The Botts dots mark the seconds, but without any particular memory. Finally we make the Fresno by-pass and steal glances of the unlikely cityscape. Then the high bridge over the dusty bed of the once grand San Joaquin River. My thoughts wander over the foreboding changes of a 50-year-drought until Lilalee points out the Steel Saguaro that marks the end of the valley tedium. The mountains are not yet visible, but the rolling terrain and basalt outcrops presage the heights ahead.  |
| The Steel Saguaro |
We step out into the gravel lot at the Hounds Tooth. It's hot and breezy. Fire weather. We stretch our backs and crunch across to the office. The owner, a silver-haired man with tan arms and stained hands, greets us. "Good trip?"
"Not bad. We saw the plume."
"Crews have been driving past all day. They say 120 is closed west of Crane Flat." He hands me the key. "They say it might get in the park this time. You're upstairs to the right."
As we ascend the stairs, Lilalee whispers, "Don't say a word. I don't want to hear it. We're going to have a great time." But, I know tomorrow we need to drive through Crane Flat.
The room is cool and cozy. Shadows play on the lace curtains. Lilalee settles on the bed with her favorite poetess du jour. A Polish Lady with a unpronounceable name. I slump in a Queen Anne's chair with a history of the British Navy. It's rich with anecdotes about shameful arrogance. It will be good source matter for the still-nameless Key to all Mythologies.
"Can I read this to you?" say Lilalee.
I will never again say say "no" to that question. The poem is a lovely apology for being human.
"I just love her. Should I read another?"
I can't quite concentrate on this one. I'm feeling cooped up. I excuse myself and head down with my book to the shaded terrace decked out white adirondack chairs arranged around a couple of wobbly tables. This is my favorite thing about the Houndstooth. I put my feet up and close my eyes. I listen to the oaks rattle in the breeze. The savory smell reminds me of summers past.
The reverie is interrupted by the scrape of chairs at the next table. It's a young couple, handsome, dark-haired, barely 30. We exchange respectful nods. They open their books. She says something to him in French.
I return to my book, but before I've managed half-a-page, another, older, couple walks up. Not so fit. A decade my junior. Their clothes smell of dry cleaning. He carries a ice bucket with two wine bottles poking above the gunwale. She holds a stack of crystal plastic drink cups. "Mind if we join you."
"Of course." said the lovely French woman.
I decline. I'm not always unsociable, but I wish they were gone. I'm certain these people will be a bore. They'll talk about their travels, and the amazing accomplishments of their kids. Then they will regale us with things we must do. They will blot out the sound of the breeze in the trees.
He puts the bucket on their table and they make themselves comfortable. "Would you care for some Chardonnay?" asks the woman.
"How nice. This is trail magic" says the Frenchman with a very thick accent.
A hiker? I am turned to my book, but all ears.
"Trail magic?" says the older woman.
"Yes," he says. "It is when good things happen to you."
The older man pours out a four glasses. He raises a toast. "Here's to good things!"
French couple chimes in. "tchin-tchin"
"tchin-tchin," repeat the older couple. The woman asks, "Are you headed to Yosemite?"
"Yes." says the French woman. "We going to hike the John Muir Trail."
"What is that?" says the man.
As the Frenchman explains the basics, I am unable to follow a single word in my history. I'm tuned in for the details of their hike: their base weight, miles per day, starting trailhead. But, the older couple isn't really interested and the topic is short lived. Another round is poured and then the older couple enthusiastically battles out the details of their recent chateau a tour up the Loire as proof of their love of France and the French. I would swear by their silence that the French couple was bored.
In short order, I extend my well wishes and excuse myself. Upstairs Lilalee is freshening up. "There a couple downstair hiking the JMT."
"Not surprising," she says. "Yosemite is just up the road. I'm getting hungry."
We drive back towards town and our favorite Oakhurst restaurant, El Cid. We always eat there. Big helpings, great salsa, cold beer, non-tourist prices. I like it. And, not just because it's cheap.
They seat us on the patio near a Nyjer Seed feeder. We are entertained by a dozen flittering Lesser Gold Finches. At the next table are four unshaved, tanned, scruffy and freshly showered college-aged men. Lilalee taunts me with a silent wolf whistle. We both listen as we examine our menus.
"I was talking to one of the Seniors," says one. "They are recalling all the teams west of White Wolf."
"This gonna get ugly," says another.
"They'll probably lay us off early," says a third.
"Once the smoke gets into the park, that's OK with me." says the fourth.
"Bull," says the third. "You just miss your girl friend."
Lilalee is staring at me. She knows what I'm thinking. "Don't worry about it," she whispers. "Tomorrow we'll be at Tuolumne."
She's right of course. I can't decide where I want to hike first.