My destination is Moraine Campground in Cedar Grove. I'll be setting up next to the RVs with satellite dishes. It will suck. If I didn't need to acclimatize, I would camp up the trail. But, I'm not repeating that nightmare — no more short cuts; from now on, I'm going to acclimatize. On the bright side, there are flush toilettes.
I pull into a Bakersfield diner for eggs and coffee. I take a spot at the counter across from the milk dispenser. I wait and watch a suspended milk drop splatter on the counter. My waitress is serving an elderly couple in a nearby booth. He wears a hardly-worn feed hat. His fork shakes as he lifts his pancake. She is dressed for church and cuts her bacon with a knife. Over by the window, two guys in grease-stained uniforms gaze at the parking lot as if something is going to happen. There's a red tee shirt on the wall over by the register. It bears the flaming white letters "Milt's, The Hottest spot in Bakersfield." The price, $20. Another milk drop splatters. When the waitress takes my order, she calls me honey. I wish I had a book. I've got Wharton's Summer is in my pack. It is only 4 ounces.
My food comes. I eat quickly, pass on a second cup and leave a generous tip.
The day heats up on the drive north. The windows are down. The blue shadow of the Sierras hovers in the east. I linger behind an 18-wheeler. Three-ton, twin-cab pickups roar past with showy aggression. I could care less. I'm in a capsule, the wind blotting out time, just passing from one state to another, alone with my thoughts, not quite here, not quite there, heading for high country. The radio said it will be 100. Thundershowers are forecast. What will fate hold?
I descend on Visalia to kill time and maybe look at hiking gear. I drive around aimlessly for an hour. There is a perverse pleasure in being aimless. I can never be that way with Lilalee. She is agitated by wasted time. I should be grateful. No telling what would have become of me. I feel hungry again. I pull up to a Mexican joint and order a burrito to go. I eat it there and think about how to simplify my life.
I drive the back roads north out of Visalia. The way is winding. The road rough. I pass a village with a weedy town square and a high school. The gym is the biggest building in town. There's a gigantic marmot painted one wall. I pass miles of shady orchards and tall green corn rattling with the wind. There are big, freshly-painted houses down long gravel driveways and tall deep-well pumps gushing water into muddy canals. The land gets hilly. I start climbing. The hills turn to slopes, the oak to fir. The vistas open up. I'll soon be in the park.
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| Descending into Kings Canyon |
The Trails End parking lot is swirling with clouds of gritty grey dust. The colors of the cars and trees are muted. The air is alive with the glints of swarming mosquitos. Four go for my neck. I squirt some Deet and head over to the Wilderness Station for my permit. Deet sucks.
I am third in line. A guy with a bushy, thru-hiker beard, deep tan and dirty shirt is in front of me. He looks like the real deal. We trade courteous nods. Two young women are at the permit window. Students probably. Their Osprey packs look new. The ranger fills out their permit while they swat their legs. He is very authoritative in his Park Service shirt and campaign hat. He recites the Leave No Trace rules. They nod accordingly, sign the paperwork, lift their packs and hike east across Zumwalt Meadow.
The bushy beard steps up to the counter. He requests a walk-up for Rae Lakes.
"No problem," says the ranger and pulls out a blank permit. The ranger pays him little mind while writing down the routine answers and reciting rules.
"No camping till Sphinx Creek," instructs the Ranger.
"I know" says Mr. Beard.
"No camping within 100 feet of water."
"I know," replies Mr. Beard with audible boredom.
"Bury you poop six inches and carry out your toilet paper," continues the Ranger.
"I don't use toilet paper," say Mr. Beard.
"Carry it out if you do," responds the Ranger. "Keep all food and fragrant items in your bear canister."
"I'm not using a bear cannister," retorts Mr. Beard. "I'm hanging my food. I just did the Colorado trail and hung my food every day without a problem."
The two men lock eyes.
"The rules say you have to have a bear cannister."
"I don't have one," says Mr. Beard with a matter-of-fact shrug.
"No problem," says the Ranger. He reaches under the counter and produces a scuffed up Garcia Cache 812. "Five dollars a week with a credit card deposit. Got a credit card?"
"My food won't fit in there," says Mr. Beard.
The Ranger tips his head and squints just under the brim of his campaign hat. "It's $200 a day every day you get caught without a canister. I'm thinking your chances of getting caught are much better than seeing a bear."
"That's some stupid shit," complains Mr. Beard and fishes out his wallet with visible irritation. After signing the papers, he shoulders his pack and heads off to the east across Zumwalt Meadow with the Garcia Cache 812 under his arm.
I approach the kiosk and the Ranger says, "The skeeters are pretty bad today, how can I help."
From what I could tell, he wasn't bothered by the bugs.
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| Late afternoon at Camp Moraine |
I drive over by the Cedar Grove Lodge near the Hat Creek Trailhead. I notice a mom and her two freshly-showered kids walking around in towels. Four days from now a shower will be sweet. I snoop around a bit. Sure enough the building behind the lodge says "showers." I head over to the store, which doubles as the lodge reception.
"Can a backpacker buy a shower?" I ask.
"Three-fifty for ten minutes," says the lady behind the register.
"I saw the ladies'," I say, "where's the men's?"
"There's only one," she says. "It's sort of co-ed." Then she leans over the counter and in sotto voce adds, "Don't worry. There's no extra charge."
The Hat Creek Trail climbs in a rapid succession of well-graded switchbacks. I'm soon in clearer air out of mosquito range. The trail flattens out above of the canyon. There's a meadow. A buck hears me and marches out of view. Off to the east, I can make out snow on Mount Bago. I'll be there tomorrow. I lie down on a patch of grass and munch a picky bar. I'm all set for tomorrow. I just need a good night sleep.
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| Clouds gathering at the pass. |
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| The meadow atop Hat Creek Trail |
* ORT is the acronym for Operational Readiness Test. A term I've opted from my old colleagues at Space Systems Lab to describe the final days of testing prior to launch.