"Have you been hiking much?" asks Addie with a raised brow and earnest inflection.
Addie has always been earnest—unmistakably so. Interested in that odd, caring way that gathers but doesn't connect. We met long ago. She dated a dimly-remembered roommate. We even went out once; then lost touch. She married Allen. He was OK, but all film biz. When they moved to LA, she looked me up. They rented close by. After I met Lilalee, we all did things together. At least until Allen climbed the food chain and hobnobbed with people whose names appeared in the Hollywood Reporter. It was only after Alan shot himself, leaving her in hideous debt, that Lila and Addie got to be close friends.
"He's been getting up early every morning and hiking," replies Lilalee covering my absence. "He's getting ready to hike the John Muir Trail."
I shrug in agreement.
Time has not be generous with Addie. After Allen, she didn't tap into life much. Her youth wore away quickly. She never aspired to be more a school librarian, never again had a committed relationship. Yet there is not a gram of self-pity in her. She is blessed with a monotonous contentment sustained by a dulled state of awareness that won't meddle in things that lurk below the surface.
When I gaze into her eyes I can still see the girl who got stoned with the stereo blasting Beggars Banquet. It's what surrounds them that marks her losses. Our losses. I see it in the mirror. She must also see it; every day. We're slipping away and not just in the sophomoric, existential way. Surely she knows, it's now or never for us.
"How interesting!" Addie exclaims. "What's the John Muir Trail?"
"A path to redemption."
Lilalee admonishes me with a teasing scowl. "Now be serious."
Our server arrives with the steaming plates. Unfortunately mine is more decorative than substantial: a two-tablespoon dome of egg, two shoelaces of bacon, a crescent of hashbrowns and a puddle of jelly under a lean-to of bite-sized pieces of dry wheat toast. I could easily eat every morsel on the table.
We say our goodbyes and drive north towards the mountains. The windows are down. Clouds from the latest rainless storm race east sending a dance of shadows across sunlight slopes.
"She was doing good, don't you think?" says Lilalee.
"I thought so. I think it's her nature."
"Maybe," she replies. "I can't even imagine what she's been through."
I nod, but not so much to agree as to turn my thoughts to something else.
Lilalee turns with a merry pose. "I don't want to go home. Let's see a movie."
"I need to work on the plan."
She purses a look of disappointment. "Ok. I just hope this thing isn't going to take over our life."
There's always been this countdown clock in my head. When I was young it was morbid. Now it's practical to be morbid. I cope with the clock by making lists. A list puts my mind's at peace. I can just concentrate with confidence; oblivious to the next thing.
Once home Lilalee leaves me to my devices. I grab a yellow pad, and I begin to gather the loose ends. They come quickly. Permit. I need the permit. To walk the John Muir Trail, you must have a permit. I must apply soon. The slots go quickly.
I need a date for the application. I fumble around for the freebie calendar from Amalgamated Insurance. (No reason to tempt fate by throwing away the year before it happens.) I rip the pages and set them side by side. August is too early; I won't be ready. Come mid-September the passes could get snowed in. No guarantees either way. I zero in on the day after Labor Day, September 2nd. That's it. I'll apply tomorrow. Two scratches on the pad. Progress.
Next things are more work. A hike plan: campsites, miles per day, resupply points. Resupply stops are pretty obvious: Tuolumne Meadows, Red Meadows, John Muir Trail Ranch and a pricey, packer delivery over Kearsarge Pass near Duck Lake. The resupply dates are another thing. They will take some head scratching. I need those dates to know how much food to stuff in the cannister on each leg of the hike. Wenk's spreadsheet1 will be a big help. She's mapped out campsites and landmarks along the route. I signal the on-high a note of thanks for Ms. Wenk and scribble some more.
And then there's the food plan. Each meal, each day must be plotted. They better be dense with calories: about 1,200 calories per pound. 1,500 per pound is better. At a pound-and-a-half per day, that could be 12 hefty pounds of food for the longest stretch. Those will be non-dairy calories, or I'll pass my days digging cat holes. No good store-bought choices on that score. I jot: "Freezer-bag meals. Non-dairy recipes. Freeze-dried stuff (buy/make?). Test at home."
I lean back. That's the thing. I need to test out everything. I'll need shakeout trips for the new gear. That's what we did back at Space System Labs to get ready for a launch: shake-out tests. They were called "Operational Ready Tests" or ORTs. I'll need ORTs. The more the better: A three-dayer? A four-dayer? Maybe two? I study the calendar pages and mark off ORTs for June, July and August. More time in the Sierras. This is starting to feel real.
Another thing. Resupply buckets must be provisioned and positioned. Some mailed. Some delivered. I can do that while I acclimatize for the hike. Three days should be plenty of acclimatization. Where? I draw some more x's and arrows on the calendar.
The days are filling up: only 114 days by my reckoning. That's enough time to get strong, but I still need to include those natty travel details like reservations for zero days and acclimatizing days. Not to mention just getting there and getting back.
There's a knock. Lilalee sticks her head in. "How's it going?"
"Good. I was just thinking about how I'm going to get to there and get home."
"I can drive. Let's make it a mini-vacation. How's that?"
I love her smile. Things are coming together. Tick-tick-tick.
1. See John Muir Trail: The Essential Guide to Hiking America's Most Famous Trail by Elizabeth Wenk. The spreadsheet is available for download.