I bolt from a deep sleep. There was a terrifying dream. My shirt and neck are drenched. The tent is hot. My heart is pounding out a rhythm like Dance of the Youth and Maidens. My breath is short. I need air.
I crawl out. The sky is tinted indigo. The air cool. I fumble lacing on my boots. I can't quite catch my balance.
Duane is lounging against the SUV-sized boulder we designated as the "kitchen." He reads from a thick volume (it must weigh a pound) and munches a snack from his open cannister. "Nice nap?"
"Too soon to tell."
He gives me a puzzled look.
I take a stick, strain up slope behind camp and four-leg-it onto a high granite slab. Off to the south, the snow fields on Evolution Range glow orange in the late afternoon sun. The wind is now steady with whooshing gusts. The chill is setting in. I feel unsteady and hyperventilate to set things right. Back to my east, the brown slopes of Mount Humphreys tower above the lake. I follow the high ridge west to Pilot Knob. I imagine going over the col and know that I could not do it in my present state.
Route to the col. Pilot Knob in the distance Photo by Duane Bindschadler |
"You OK?" asks Duane.
"I'm not sure. I need a walk."
"Hold on. I'll go with you."
We head east along the lake shore. The sun dips behind the divide to the west. The wind picks up a notch sending gray wavelets and fragments of surface ice against the shore. We don't say much; our words are just blown away. After a half-mile we come to the Forsaken Lake outlet. Just ahead the mountain plunges right into the lake.
"Better?" shouts Duane.
"Yea." Walking has helped some. "Time for dinner?" I yell hoping I'll be hungry.
"You bet," replies Duane. "Gotta try my spicy peanut sauce. It's killer."
Back at camp I pull on my base layer, shell and fleece hat. We huddle out of the wind behind the kitchen to set up our stoves and boil water. I splurge on fuel for a cup of tea to sip while my ham-bits and peas hydrate.
Duane unfolds his map. I hold it down. He traces a route around Mesa Lake and stabs a spot above Knob Lake. "If you're up to it, I think we should try the col about here."
"I'll be fine in the morning."
The peas and potatoes don't hydrate. They are crunchy and raw; the ham-bits are tasteless. At least I'm getting my calories. I'll need them tomorrow. I try a fork of Duane's peanut sauce. "Fantastic," I say with a bit too much enthusiasm—probably because I can't taste it.
"I should have made is spicer," he replies defensively.
The dusk has gathers around us quickly. The wind gets cold. I clean up dinner, stash the fragrant items in the cannister. It's not quite dark, but I crawl into the tent. The fly snaps in the wind; the tent floor is cold. I leave on my down and hat and zip up in the bag. I try to read a bit more Vonnegut, but I can't concentrate. I turn off my headlamp. It'll be better in the morning.