I queue up behind a woman wearing an expensive-looking flowery blouse and heavy gold necklace. Her purplish hair is pulled taught over a high forehead. Her is face stretched, powdered, rouged and immobile as if something human had been resected. I think she's older than me, but I can't be sure. She looks me over with expressionless, clear-blue eyes. I smile and say, "Good morning." She grunts an acknowledgement and with two disapproving sniffs steps a half-a-step back. I wonder what she'd think five days from now when I'm ripe from the trip up Matterhorn Canyon.
I leave town with the windows down. Everyone is passing as I rubber neck at the Bishop Tuff and the rock along Sherwin Summit. Not far past Tom's place, I slow to watch a sedge of cranes circle over Crowley Lake. The air chills on the climb out of Long Valley. There's a crisp scent of Jaffery Pine. I feel the altitude: light headed and queasy. As I descend Deadman's Summit, past the June Lake Loop cutoff, Mount Lewis, Mount Gibbs and Mount Dana come into view. Tioga Pass is just ahead. It's too soon. I keep driving, past Lee Vining, over Conway Summit and through Bridgeport. The lush ranch lands north of town run serenely west towards the shadowy Sierra. Sonora pass is up there. The PCT runs through there. I decide to drive up.
 |
| Just north of Bridgeport |
I turn off on 108. The road runs through the Little Walker Caldera and then climbs 3,000 feet to the pass. I pull into the Sonora Pass picnic area and park in a rock lined space. I feel the altitude again. I figure some exercise will help me feel better. I stuff a water bottle in my back pocket, the sandwich in a cargo pocket, grab my sticks and head south down the PCT.
The trail winds on a graceful grade around the slopes. The terrain open and arid. Despite the elevation I'm not breathing hard. I walk about a mile across the parched bed of Sardine Creek and then up to a ridge with a grand 270 degree view. I plop on a flat rock and try to imagine this land before it was pushed up, when the rivers flowed across here to the west. The impermanence of the land is a comfort; I feel kinship — part of a greater whole. The thought makes me hungry. I unwrap the sandwich and breathe in the fresh bread, ripe tomato and savory ham. It will be the best food I will have for days. I have that rare sense of well being. Life is good.
Three hikers round the bend on the trail to the southwest of me. They are a fast paced group. One woman and two men. I can hear their voices, but cannot tell what they are saying. They cover the ridge in minutes and pass, heads down, sticks clacking, a few strides apart, not 50 feet below me. After they cross the creek bed, I stand and I dust off. Time to move on. I stroll back to the car resolving to return here.
As I pull out of the picnic area, I see the three hikers seated in the shade of a fir tree. Their packs are piled neatly against the trunk. A fellow with a long red ponytail and wizard beard sees me and sticks his thumb out. I pull over. They all spring up. I roll down the window.
"Where you going?"
"Bridgeport," says the fellow with the wizard beard.
"That's where I'm headed."
"Cool," he says with enthusiastically.
I hop out and open the hatch. They all wear baseball hats, sunglasses and sport tattoos. Their limbs and faces are deeply sunburned, their clothes are filthy and they smell like yesterday's campfire. The wizard beard and the woman appear to be in their late twenties. His features are prematurely weathered. She is tall and has curly bleached hair. The other fellow is younger, sting-bean skinny with blush cheeks and a peach-fuzz beard. The stow their packs and climb in. Wizard beard takes the front seat. The tall woman and the young fellow pile in back.
"Thanks man," says the wizard beard with a voice pitched higher than expected. " We really appreciate it."
"Yea, thanks," the others chime in unison.
I don't doubt they are appreciative, but I can tell that this thanks is well practised — my ride will be just another in a long line of trail-magic perks. In 45 minutes, we'll be headed our separate ways. Nonetheless, I'm glad for the company and interested in their stories.
"I'm Light Ray, that's Comet and that's Soapy." he adds pointing to the woman and the younger fellow in turn.
I look at them in the mirror. Comet breaks out a smile and gives Soapy a friendly push. I dismiss the thought that she seems familiar.
"I haven't accepted that name," retorts Soapy.
Comet explains, "He's Soapy because he washes dishes for Degnan's in Yosemite Village."
I nod. I've eaten a dozen burgers at Degnan's.
"He got it from some dirt bags in climber camp," says Light Ray. "That's where we all met."
"So you are all climbers?" I ask.
"He's the climber," says Soapy pointing at Light Ray.
"We're just hikers," adds Comet.
"So you're coming from Yosemite Valley?"
"Yup," replies Light Ray. "Headed for Tahoe. What about you?"
I tell them I have a permit to hike from Tuolumne to Matterhorn Canyon. "It's a shake out hike. For the JMT," I say and, in the hope of turning the subject to something more interesting, add, "Where are you from?"
Suddenly Comet interjects, "Do I know you?"
"Seems unlikely."
I look in the mirror again. She does look familiar.
"Imagine! Getting a hitch with someone you know! Is that trippy or what?" declares Soapy.
"Very punny," says Light Ray knowing full well that Soapy hadn't yet realized there was one.
"Are you the friend of Julie Swonk's family?" asks Comet.
I look again. This time I'm sure. We've met. I can't think where. "Julie is my god daughter," I answer cautiously.
"Holy fuck," she says. "I was at your New Year's eve Party. Don't you remember?"
I look back. She has taken off her sunglasses. I am horrified. It's Julie's friend. Julie's mother Siobahn had invited her to our New Year's party. I lost my cool. I insulted her. She left angry. With good reason. My behavior was shameful. I'm 35 years her senior. All the embarrassment of that moment floods back.
She sees the recognition in my face. "Yep. That's me," she says stating the obvious.
"The writer?"
"The writer. Small world don't you think?" she says with a hint of condescension.
I have it coming. I try to think of something affable. Maybe open the door for an apology. Then I remember. "Aren't you hiking the PCT?"
"Glad you asked. I was. Till my Father died," she says matter-of-factly.
"Shit," says Light Ray turning to her. "I'm sorry man. I didn't know."
"It's cool," she says implying the topic was closed.
Light Ray, failing to get the hint, reaches over and places his hand reassuringly on her leg. It is a familiar touch. She doesn't object, but she squeezes his hand and returns it to him.
"Fuck man. I'm so sorry. I can't even imagine my Dad dying," says Soapy pensively.
I have nothing to say and too much to say. I glance in the mirror again. She is staring out at the slopes as they pass. She's young to lose a parent. I wonder, were they close? Some people come unglued. Is she coping? I think of old acquaintances that couldn't. All their promise was consumed in desperation and tragedy. I know now that not everyone makes it. I would like to say something supportive, helpful and forgiving but she is beyond my reach and if that is her path, I cannot help.
"I read you blog." I say. "You have a gift."
"Thanks for reading," she says indifferently.
"You have a blog?" asks Soapy.
"Yea."
Soapy persists, "Will I be in it?"
"You will all be in it," she says. "Don't worry."
 |
| Mono County Court house, Bridgeport |
I would have liked to talk more. Ask about their personal histories, hear their aspirations, find out where they grew up, get a sense of what makes them laugh. Sadly, more opportunities get lost than found. So it is this time.
Light Ray and Soapy head north for the Redwood Motel. There is a large plastic cast of bucking bronco mounted on a pole and the pool. The place looks inviting. Comet heads south toward the general store. I want to call after her, but don't. I drive past on the way south. In the rear view mirror, she signals with a little wave. I am grateful. It is unlikely we should meet again. Sometimes you must leave a thing behind and just live with a little more regret.
I show the ranger at the park entry my senior card. He's seems like just a kid. He waves me through for free. Age has a few perks. After all these years, Yosemite feels like a comfort zone. The land and the mountains are familiar. I've hiked many of the trails.
It is slow going out of Tuolumne. I'm stuck behind a RV that's too big for the road. I don't mind. I hang back and take in the views. By the time I arrive at White Wolf, it is well into the afternoon.
I park across the road from the White Wolf Lodge. We've stayed in those cabins. They are more decrepit than rustic, but LilaLee loves this place. I wish she was here.
I shoulder my pack, stuff $5 in a pay envelope and and head over to back packer's area via the back route. My campsite karma is good. Site 42, in far north corner of the backpacker's camp, is open. I should have my wilderness permit, but they never check here. I'll get it tomorrow. Curiously there are 3 bottles of Johnny Reb, one bottle of Smirnoff and assorted snacks in the bearbox. I'm pretty sure this is not allowed, but it's not my problem. I'm just glad to have a quiet spot.
The afternoon fades. I feel restless, but it is too late for a stroll to Harden's Lake. I decide to walk the campground loop before diner. To my astonishment, there is an empty bear trap just outside the backpacker's area. It is impressive, crude and big as my car. Four kids are climbing on it, oblivious to it's purpose or why it might be here now or the 'danger' signs prominently posted both sides of the trap. It strikes me as curious. Why would a bear climb into that thing. Why wouldn't it know better? But then again, aren't we all prone to walk into traps even when we know better?
