My mind is a buzz. The clock says it's too early. I pull on a coat and step out back. It's cold; my feet go numb. It's quiet; it's as if the planet was abandoned and no one told me. No dogs barking. No birds stirring. Only a single car rumbling in the distance; probably the Sunday paper. I look around. There's a waning gibbous moon in the west. I can just make out gray ridge lines on Mount Wilson. I blow a few steamy breaths. It will be frosty up there. A pint bottle would freeze, but the stars would be close, the sky bright, the sway of dark branches calming.
A shiver shoots up in my shoulders. Then down. It's the thin blood. I tuck in my coat. I should get dressed, put on some shoes. I tell myself, "Don't shake." I need to acclimate.
Acclimate. What a nefariously bland word. Do you acclimate to a glorious weather? The serving of your favorite dish? The company of someone you love? Hardly. There's a "like-it-or-not" hidden inside acclimate. Cold is nothing. How about the inexorable dripping of hope and promise from the reservoir of life? Acclimatize to that! Or try to acclimate to the reality that the old one in those photos is you. Or acclimate to the fact that most of the people in your parade of memories will never been seen again no matter how many times you google them. I'd rather acclimate to the cold.
My teeth start to chatter. I pound my arms and shift my feet. The navigation lights atop Mount Wilson pulse in turn as if aware. I need to get up there. Clear my mind. Why not. Aren't I retired? And it's the Lady's needlepoint day. Lilalee sewing some inspirational adage -- no doubt something for my edification.
The back door creaks. Lilalee sticks her head out. "Are you nuts? It's freezing cold."
"I couldn't sleep. It'll be light soon."
"Come to bed. I'll warm you up."
"OK. I'll be there in a minute."
But she can tell I won't. "I'll be glad when you get out of this mood," she says. "And you should at least put on some pants. You look ridiculous."
I watch her tread down the hall in her night shirt and socks. How did I get so lucky? I could just follow and warm in her embrace. It's where I belong, but it's not in me. I am on some road to elsewhere. I go to the kitchen, slather up some "P"-"B"-and-"J" and think about what to put in my day pack.
The sun pokes up right at the horizon. I pull in a turn out and watch the miniaturized city crawling to life. The light is strong and warming. The mountain air relieves the clamour in my head. I decide to hike Mt Hilyer. I've got the day. There's no hurry. For no reason at all, I stop off at the Gabrielino and Silver Moccasin trailheads. I walk a few switchbacks down each. I want to do it all.
It's already nine when I park at the Chilao Flats Visitor Center at the base of Mount Hilyer. I find a sunny spot by the nature trail and snarf up a Picky bar and some Trader Joe's trail mix. I'm still hungry. I need something substantial. I get back in the car and drive over to Newcomb's for bacon and eggs.
There's a crowd. Three-dozen bikes are parked in front. Mostly big Harleys with wide seats parked as , neat as forks in a drawer. I decide to go in anyway and take a corner spot at a sideboard by the pool table. It's a freshly showered crowd about my age in black leathers with good haircuts drinking mimosas. I catch snippets of trips to Europe and kids in ivy league schools. I don't see any other hikers. I gobble down my eggs, sausage, potatoes and mop the plate with jelly-slathered toast. I leave a good tip, swallow the last of the coffee and get back on the road. I impulsively turn east for Islip Saddle. I decide I'll hike Mount Williamson. Why not?
The Islip lot is empty. A couple of hikers in puffy down coats are sprawled on the picnic table by the pit toilettes. I pull my gear together and walk over to check the trailhead and take a pee. There's a sign at the trailhead. It's posted.
"Closed man," says the hiker in the blue coat. "It's a Yellow-legged Frog thing."
Sure enough. The posting says the trail is closed through Rock Creek. But, the Mount Williamson cutoff comes before that. I could still do the hike.
"A ranger was here earlier," says his buddy with distinct Philly accent. "It's 500 bucks if you get caught. We're thinking about it."
"No we're not," corrects Blue.
"Pussy," says Philly.
These guys are twenty-somethings. They carry ULA packs. Their clothes are dirty; their faces deeply burned from exposure.
"PCTers?"
"Yup." they say in unison.
"We're stars now." says Philly. "Our public should be here soon."
"Forget him," says Blue. "He's didn't sleep last night."
"No shit." Philly says with a wide yawn. "Like a bunch of idiots, we slept at Baden-Powell. Froze our asses off. Who's idea was that?"
"Ghost Buster."
"Still, it was stupid."
I interject. "Doesn't every respectable thru hiker have a trail name."
"'Respectable thru hiker' is an oxymoron," quips Philly.
Blue ignores him. "I'm Cornflake; he's Standup."
"Bull shi-it," says Standup. "His real name is Streaker. Some girls stole his clothes at Deep Creek and he chased after them for 10 minutes. It was hysterical."
"It wasn't funny," Streaker mutters.
"Trust me. I didn't get the name Standup for nothing. I know what's funny. Get used to it."
Standup hops off the table and stretches with a big sigh. "I tell you something that ain't funny, that fucking closure means a fuckin' 3 mile road walk which is gonna fuckin' kill my blisters."
"Every try Luekotape?" I ask. "I got a roll in the car."
"Shit yea," says Streaker.
I always carry Leukotape. I worship at the altar of Luekotape. I cover my feet in it. I prosthelytize Leuktotpe. I think I could save the world with Luekotape. So quite accidentally, I have a purpose. I am galvanized into action. It doesn't matter that these two are callow and prankish—that's a problem for their girl friends. I'm useful. I know something. Is there another benefit to getting old?
I watch these guys tape up. Their shoes are tattered and their feet are filthy. "Where you guys from?"
Streaker is from a Battle Creek Michigan. Standup from Roselle Park, New Jersey.
"We weren't poor, if that's what you were thinking," rebuts Standup.
"I wasn't thinking anything." I answer and change the subject. "Did you guys start together?"
"We met in Idylwild," says Streaker. "My resupply wasn't there. Standup loaned me some money."
"Usual rate of interest sucker," says Standup.
"You're not fooling me with that New Jersey bullshit," replies Streaker.
Suddenly, inexplicably, from nowhere I get this magnanimous feeling for these guys. At that moment I understand why otherwise sane and sensible people become become trail angels. Afterall, who in their right mind would chauffer, feed and house hundreds of smelly strangers who have dedicated themselves, for a while at least, to nothing more than useful than hiking all day every day? Apparently I would.
"I have an proposal," I say."If you want, I could give you guys a ride past the closure." And inexplicably think, 'And we could hike a ways.'
Streaker looks at Standup. Standup looks at Streaker.
"That sounds great sir," says Streaker, "except we're part of group."
"We're gonna meet them here," says Standup.
"Of course," I say. But, being called 'sir' is demoralizing. I should know better. We each have our place. I have mine. They have theirs.
"But thanks anyway. That's really generous and the trail magic was amazing," adds Streaker.
Something about the way he says it. I can't quite tell if he means appreciation or apology.
They wave up as I climb the switchbacks above the parking lot. I'm in motion. There's a sweeping view of the Mojave off to the North. I may not know much, but I know this is right.
I'm not a half-mile along when the first of their friends pass. In the lead is a twenty-something steely-eyed brunette with a her hair poking out of her baseball cap. She moves effortlessly at a ferocious clip. I step aside. She passes without a nod. Behind her are two men. One wears a cap; the other lets his shaggy red hair run free. They are working their sticks, pressing hard to keep up. Five minutes later, I pass a slightly older curly blond woman. She shoots me a sidelong glance as she passes. She looks familiar. Maybe a face from the blogs.
For the next mile, I have the trail to myself as it winds through the spruce and fir forest along the steep slope of Mount Islip. Just before I pass the road junction near Jimmy Camp, I pass a slower group of men who move silently with heads down like Monks. Just behind them is an Asian man with a Japanese flag strapped to his pack frame. A few hundred yards behind him, a guy my age who is lurching along in pain.
"How's it going?" I ask with concern.
"Fine. Thanks," he says hardly looking up from what appeared to be the next painful stride. My heart goes out to him. I can only imagine what's going on in his mind as he must surely thinking of giving up.
The trail then levels out. I decide to circumvent Throop Peak over to Dawson's saddle for lunch. I find a sheltered spot off the trail. I eat one sandwich facing the Mojave; the other facing Mount Baldy. No one to bother. I stare at the expanse of mountain and sky and think nothing. It is peaceful.
There's a sudden chill in the air. I stretch out and start down the way I came. I pass nary a soul. It's a shame. It's something they should see.
Mine is the sole car in the lot. The PCTers have all gone. I'm in no hurry. The sun has slipped to a low angle that gives shape to every view. I wonder if Lilalee will be home. She would like this. We'll probably watch some costume drama on PBS.
Then, there they are, eight miles down the road, stretched out for a mile. The old guy lurching along; the Japanese man upright; the clump of millennials racing along with Streaker is in the lead. Standup is chatting with the steely-eyed brunette. I drive past slowly and watch them disappear in the rear view. The sight leaves me with pang. I can't tell if it's because I am foolish or apart.