There's a lull. I can hear Duane stir in his bivvy. He'll be up soon. What will I tell him?
I slide out of the bag and quickly pull on all my layers. I pull on my boots, but don't lace up. I'm too wobbly; my hands are numb. Coffee should help. I set up the stove against the kitchen slab, out of the wind.
Now the hard part: opening a BV450 bear cannister on a cold morning with numb fingers. You must depress two inflexible release tabs and turn the lid. A skill that requires coordination and strength which both happen to be at a low ebb.
I grip the cannister tight between my thighs, push the tabs with all my might and turn. No luck. My nylon pants are as slippery as a bearing race and the cannister just slides round. In short order I'm exhausted and sucking wind.
Thanks to the many hours I spent surfing the net, I'm prepared. If you slide a credit card between the stop tab and the release tab, the lid will come free by merely applying every last ounce of strength into this simple three-point maneuver: with the badge in inserted against the tabs, press the canister into the ground, squeeze it between your knees and turn the lid. I carry an old security badge for just this occasion. (I should have returned it to Space System Labs, but that's another story.) After many experiments with different alternatives, I have long since settled on the security badge which has just the right combination of durability and flexibility.
I kneel over the canister, place the badge against the tabs and push and turn for all I'm worth. The lid comes free, but the badge flies in the air and is carried away by a sudden gust. I hurry after it only to watch it disappear down a 1,000 year old fissure in the kitchen slab.
I am seized by a panic. I press my cheek against the icy slab and jam hand as far as it will go down the crack. I just touch the badge only to see it slip in deeper. I try to force my hand farther; just to the point of nearly getting stuck. The realization is horrifying. I am overcome by indecision. What to do? I can't leave it here. What about leave-no-trace? What if some of those badge numbers show up on the internet? It's as if all the forces of nature have arrayed against me for merely wanting coffee.
Duane comes up behind. "So, what's up?"
I pull my hand from the fissure. "I'm making coffee."
"I can see that," he says. "How do you feel?"
I sit up and take a few unsatisfying breaths. Off to the west Pilot Knob is just visible in the grey light. Our route lies across the lake outlet just over a rise that is white with ice. I slide off the slab and take a few unsteady steps. I imagine crossing the col, but in my present state I couldn't even make it to the outlet. I shrug.
Duane says nothing.
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| Sunrise over Mount Humphries Photo by Duane Bindschadler |
"OK," he says reassuringly. "Let's eat. We'll talk later."
I can't quite get organized. I fumble making breakfast. Nothing seems easy. By the time I choked down my oatmeal, Duane has packed most of his gear. He starts deflating his Neoair and I sit on nearby rock.
"Well?"
"I have to go down."
"I know," he says.
"I'm sorry."
"Not as sorry as you would be," he replies.
"It's probably the altitude," I explain.
"Probably," he says with that touch of irony which removes any doubt.
"But, I've been here before," I object. "I shouldn't be sick."
He shrugs. "So it goes." He slips the Neoair the compression bag. "Let's get going. I'm worried about getting you over the pass."
I pack up, wondering if I've been reading the wrong book — next time leave Vonnegut at home.
Meanwhile, Duane attaches a piece of duct tape to his long handled spoon and fishes out my security badge.
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| Photo by Duane Bindschadler |
From that moment, things look up. The sun is warming. The sky a cloudless blue. The air cleansing. I feel better with every step down. At Summit Lake, I am completely right and ascend the pass without a the slightest symptom. By the time we pass Loch Leven, I feel like we shouldn't be leaving; I gave up too quickly. I am seriously tempted to suggest that we turn back and try again.
Just then I see a small, solitary lenticular cloud hovering just over the peak of Blanco Mountain 40 miles to the east. It's oval, yellow-gray with a rose-colored limb. It seems odd and out of place. I stop to study it.
"You okay?" asks Duane with a now-tired note of concern.
I point my stick to Blanco Mountain. Duane turns to look. But, in that moment the cloud has gone. Just like that. Just like it was nothing. Or was it? "Yea. Fine. Forget it." But I'm not sure.
Duane jabs his stick emphatically and heads off at quicker pace. "I'll feel better when we have you in Bishop."
We don't get a cell signal until we're back in town. I am preparing to call Lilalee to let her know I'll be home tonight. I'm not sure what to say to keep her from worrying. One thing's for sure, I doubt Duane will want me as a hiking partner. Who could blame him?