I don't bother to say anything, but I'm not completely right. I need sleep. My mind is mud. It was a rough night. A case of pre-hike jitters plus an escalating quarrel with Lilalee which began because I didn't replenish the tomato paste. My life must have unraveled a dozen times before I dozed off. I don't know what it means. All's fine now, but I'm still numb in places.
I avoid the interstate and take the Crest Highway across the San Gabriels. Soon we at 4,000 feet among the peaks. I ritually pick out each: Strawberry Peak, Mt. Disappointment,San Gabriel Peak. It's reassuring. We roll down the windows. The air rushes in. The sky is deep blue. My head clears. My spirits lift.
At the Mill Creek Divide we encounter a traffic stop. Edison is stringing a new high-voltage line to the city from the desert. We pass twenty speechless minutes watching choppers ferry daredevil linemen on swaying winch lines between high-tension towers. What must these men talk about at dinner? "Nearly got wrapped around a seven-sixty-KV line today. How was your day? Would you pass the ketchup?" Those people leave me feeling limited and grateful. I was once at least fearless enough to horrify my parents. No longer. However, I can still dismay my friends.
We descend towards Palmdale. A view of Mojave opens up. We chat at things in the male way — no messy emotions. He tells me about the dysfunction back at Space System Labs: the real is still surreal; the busted still perfect; the incompetent still lionized. I now know this is normal. Hope is salve for disappointment. I sympathize and counsel that the NASA gods are cruel and indifferent. He resists because he is cursed with an optimistic nature and holds firm to the myth of the meritocracy. He cannot be won over by cynicism. He is marvel of fortitude.
We pass Lancaster, Rosamond and the big-jet boneyard at the Mojave airport. We marvel at the tilted rock in Red Rock Canyon. We pass the time exchanging episodes of old hikes. I have heard them before. Then the southern reaches of the Sierras climb up in the west and the basaltic escarpment on the far bank of the old Owen River Bed angles in from the east. That river once flowed to Death Valley where it soaked into the desert. There is something tragic about a great river that never makes it to the sea. Further north, we pass cinder cones and lava outcrops. The Sierra escarpment creeps closer to the road. There is snow on the high peaks.
We arrive in Lone Pine ahead of schedule. First stop: pick up our wilderness permits.
There's a line in the Visitors Center. Four guys in plaid shirts talk about how much beer to carry to Blue Lake. A scout master admonishes 6 teenage boys to stay near. A young couple in new hiking clothes stand quietly holding hands.
The ranger waves us over. He looks to be about my age. He has a spidery nose, ruddy cheeks and a belly that keeps him a half-foot away off the counter. I guess he spends more time in meetings than the mountains.
"What can I do to you gentleman today?" His tone is as weary as his sense of humor.
"We're headed up Piute Pass." Duane slides our confirmation email across the counter.
"I see," says the ranger. He marks two tallies on a sheet clamped to a clipboard then, with a groan, takes a permit from a counter drawer. "Gonna be like rush hour up there today. Ten dollars, please."
I hand him the money. He hands Duane the permit to fill out. "Any snow reports?" I ask.
"Not much snow. Lots of water. Hope you don't mind wet socks and a few skeeters." He shoves the money into the drawer. "You rookies know the rules? Don't shit or piss within a hundred feet of water. Don't camp within hundred feet of water. Don't bury your toilet paper, carry it out. etc. etc. etc."
We nod.
"Good." He whacks the permit with his stamp, initials it and sends us on our way.
"No snow. That's good." I say.
"Draught year" answers Duane.
It's too early to eat. We decide to drive on and have lunch in Bishop. I still want to take a picture of the Alabama Hills, so we take a short detour a few minutes up Portal Road. It's a no-photo op. The battery in my camera is dead as a doornail. I don't have a spare. "It's no big thing," I think. "I'll buy another in Bishop." But it doesn't feel that way. What else can go wrong?
We drive back to the 395. Just outside of Independence we pass two female hikers with their thumbs out.
"PCTers," says Duane.
I pull over. They jog up to the car with their backpacks bounding on their backs.
"We're going to Bishop?" shouts one.
"Hop in."
They are in their mid-twenties. Deeply tanned, very fit, and filthy. One wears pigtails that poke out from a baseball cap. The other wears a head scarf and carries a light-weight umbrella. I open the hatch and load up their gear. Pigtails carries maybe than 12 pounds. Umbrella, maybe 16.
They climb in the back and routinely buckle up like we're returning from soccer practise. Neither show the slightest concerned for getting in a car with two strange men.
"Sorry if we stink," says Pigtails. "I'm Dust Bunny. This is Pathfinder."
We introduce ourselves, but we don't have trail names. "We're head up to hike Piute Pass," says Duane. "He's training for the JMT."
"We see a lot of JMTers," says Dust Bunny.
Pathfinder chimes in. "How about that JMT dude who gave us the dried banana chips and Clif Bars. Wasn't that cool?"
"Yea. We ran out of food," explains Dust Bunny. "We're going to Bishop to resupply and meet our friends."
Damn. What could be more routine than running out of food? Why worry right? Some one will give you some food. Then you just hike out 10 miles and hitchhike another 60 — with a stranger from a society that harbors creepy predators. What could go wrong aside from everything? But that's OK. It's part of the adventure and thru-hiking is about overcoming your fears. It's like there's a thru-hiker magic guarantee against harm so long as you're on the trail. And damn. It's contagious. I feel it in these old bones. There's something about these two. Here, I'm just driving down the 395, and I feel like we've become part of their adventure.
"How long have you been hiking together?" asks Duane.
Dust Bunny folds her arms on the back of Duane's seat. "We met at Crabtree meadow."
"She a lot faster hiker than me," explains Pathfinder. I found out she also hiked the AT. At different times, but we both hiked it. It was amazing."
"Which do you like better?"
"AT!" exclaims Pathfinder. "It's so-o-o green. And no-o-o desert."
"I like the desert!" asserts Dust Bunny. "Night hiking. The stars. It is so cool"
"OK," says Pathfinder defensively. "But the water gets so heavy."
I bet. In some places it's 20 miles between water sources. The water isn't reliable. That means carrying 5 liters; an extra ten or twelve pounds in the sweltering heat on a shadeless trail where your sweat dries to a chafing grit. And, if you dry camp, there's no soaking your feet or splashing your face before crawling into your bag.
I glance in the rear view at at these two young women. They have endured all that. They are healthy, happy and meeting friends. It's like they are on 2-foot-wide, 2,000-mile-long amusement ride. Trail magic will provide. There's none of life's competitive pressures unless you count miles per day. The 64-year-old in me wonders if thru hiking is merely an escape or really living. The 25-year-old inside thinks, "If you can do the JMT, then maybe..."
During the 40 minute ride, we ply them with questions. Where are you from? (Portland/Cleveland) What did you do? (Restaurant/Substitute teach) Do you write a blog. (yes,yes) What do you do next?
"I don't know," says Dust Bonnie distinctly irritated. "Your questions are freaking me out."
"There's always another hike," says Pathfinder reassuringly.
"What about you. What do you guys do?" says Dust Bunny bluntly changing the topic.
Duane tells them about Space System Labs. "You know. We put the rovers on Mars?" He tells them about the cool things he does in operations. I tell them I'm retired.
"My grandfather is retired," says Pathfinder.
We let the PCTers out a block from the Bishop Hostel. Dust Bunny sees two scruffy guys and calls to them. She quickly thanks us and dashes away. Pathfinder grabs her pack hurries to catch up. After a few steps she turns back to say, "Thank you. Thank you. It's people like you who make it all worthwhile."
"I'm sorry to see them go."
"Me too," says Duane. "I'm hungry. And let's get that camera a battery."
Raymond's Deli is a noisy and crowded. Thru hikers everywhere. Most are millennials with a desert sunburn, scruffed up legs and filthy clothes. "Looks like we came to the right place," says Duane.
We get in line. The young woman behind at the register is goth. Her arms and neck are covered with tattoos. Her lips and nose are pierced. Her hair close cropped on one side and lime green on the other. I ask for a BLT.
"Is this your first time here?" she asks.
"Yea."
"The BLT is awesome, but you should try the Sub. They smoke the hams here."
"Is that all they smoke?"
"Very cute," she says. "Pick your drinks and sandwiches up over there."
The sandwiches are huge and delicious. We eat quickly. Neither of us can finish. Duane waits outside while I use the restroom. On the way out I see a freshly-showered, hiker look both ways and then stuff our half-finished remains in his pocket. He strokes his beard with self-satisfaction. It seems normal. It is the logic of the thru-hiker.
Our last stop in town is the camera store two doors down from Raymonds. "Good news. Bad news," says the clerk. They have the battery for my camera. It costs $60 and takes a day to charge.
"No problem," says Duane. "You can use my camera. Take as many pictures as you want."
One the way back to the car, I see Dust Bunny, Pathfinder and two guys enter Raymonds. I wave, but they don't notice.
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| Lower Lamarck Lake Photo by Duane Bindschadler |
We are set up our tents and layout our bags. There's still plenty of daylight. We fill water bottles and set out for Lower Lamarack Lake. It's couple miles and a thousand feet up. Just the thing to shake out the stiffness after a long drive. The lake is tranquil. Duane suns on a rock. I stare into the rippling reflections of the surrounding mountains and reflect on the long road it took to get here.
We get back to camp in late afternoon. Duane brought the makings of chili burgers and chips. He makes a fire as the afternoon gives way to the evening chill. It will be cold tonight, but we're going to eat good. Tomorrow we hike.
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| Preparing for the rigors ahead |