We are sitting in one the deflated booths by the window. Swonk stares out at the heat and traffic. His mind is elsewhere. I draw a ketchup spiral with a last soggy fry. We've been coming to the Astro since back when we drank coffee past midnight and were animated by each other's ideas.
I called Swonk because I've been glum since East Lake. Lilalee had suggested it. I've been telling him about that awful night. I'm about to tell him how worried I was about getting caught in lightening up on Glenn Pass and about the mosquito cloud up in Vidette Meadow.
"Hold it." he says in a tone usually reserved for patients. "You woke up and couldn't catch a breath?"
"Yea. Sorta..."
"And you were at niney-six hundred?"
"Yea, but I was acclimated."
He leans in. Very insistent. "Bullshit."
"I took Diamox."
"You're a bone head." He starts emphasizing each syllable with jab at the table. "You weren't acclimated. You had some bad altitude shit. You could die."
"Come on. It wasn't that bad."
"You're being a stubborn ass," he says.
"This is pissing me off."
He smirks. "Go ahead. Fill your lungs with plasma, see if anyone gives a shit," He picks up the tab and hands it to me. "I know it's my turn, but why don't you get this. That way, if you don't survive, we'll be even."
It's hot. It's smoggy. The traffic is at a standstill. I am too agitated to listen to the radio or head home. Things are coming apart. It's not just Swonk. It's all of us. The bonds that held us together are dissolving. Distance, grand kids, divorce, indulgence, compulsion, unchecked self-righteousness, over-powering grief, illness and infirmity. We don't need AARP and the Neptune Society to remind us that the store of opportunity has a limited stock. Who asked them to send their monthly reminders? Or bucket lists. Why are people so eager to blithely recite something so morbid? Can't they just get on with it? Must we hear about their selfish desires and selfless charities? Where's the perspective? Are we so important? If you ask me they could all use a trip to the Sierras. I could use one.
I decide to head over to REI. I could get that EXPED air pillow. Only 1.5 ounces. They might have one in stock. The very thought is cheering.
It's mid summer hiking season. The lot is full; the check-out line wraps around past the back packs; there's a palpable stir of excitement. It's contagious. My legs feel strong.
I head over to the gadget aisles and slide around a dad and two adolescent sons who are studying the Mountain House dinners.
"I want Shepard Pie," says one of the boys.
"I'd stick with the Alfredo," warns the dad.
"It makes me puke," says the other boy.
I turn up the next aisle. The titanium pots catch my eye. I try not to crowd two college-age girls who are intently studying a GSI Halulite cookset.
"It's expensive," says one.
"But we'll share," says the other.
"I hope you won't mind me interrupting," I say, "but the plastic on that fold-up handle will melt."
The girls trade looks. "Thank you," says the other, making it clear I should go away.
I decide to move along to the hydration kits. A very handsome millennial couple and green-vest REI associate are huddled around a smart phone at the end of the aisle. He is long-haired and bearded. Her limbs are tattooed and unshaven. They are tanned, muscular, self-assured and could be mistaken for cultists. I stop in hearing distance and pretend to examine a 2-liter Platy bottle.
"This is a view of Matterhorn Canyon from Horse Creek Pass." she says. "Here's where we camped at Miller Lake."
"Wow. Never been there," says the associate.
"It's amazing. Here's a view down from the switchbacks going up Baxter Pass.," she adds.
They stare silently in the phone. I try to steal a look without seeming to intrude. They don't notice.
"Next week we're going to section from Sonora to Tahoe," he says.
"I love that part of the PCT. Really..." she insists, "you've got to see it."
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| 1 1/4 ounces of inspiration |
I stand in line behind a grizzled bald guy about my age; a humbling reminder of my own appearance. We nod. He has a couple dozen Cliff bars in his basket.
"Got a trip planned?" I ask.
"Yea," he says. "My wife and I are starting the JMT next week."
"No kidding?"
"No kidding."
"Happy Isles?"
"Yea. It's our third time. We love it," he says.
The line advances.
"What about you?" he asks.
"Matterhorn Canyon," I reply.
"I've heard it's amazing," he says.
I am making a stew for dinner. Lilalee loves my stew. The secret is the carrots. But I'll never tell.
"Hello," she says wearily as she enters the front door. She drops her bag on the table. "I smell dinner. Thank god. I'm starving"
"Tough day?"
"The usual crap, meetings, meeting, meetings," she says. "How's Swonk?"
"Same ol', same ol'. He's good. Siobahn's good. Everyone's good."
"What did you guys talk about?"
"The usual. Not much."
"We should all get together." She says and grabs the spoon to sample the pot. "Mmmm. Delicious. Nice to see you in a good mood."
"I got the permit for my next hike."
The creases around her eyes deepen. "Where you going? "
"A place called Matterhorn Creek. Just north of Yosemite. I'm leaving Saturday. That OK?"
"Doesn't really matter what I say, does it?"
"Of course it does."
But we both know it doesn't which puts a damper on dinner. But I don't mind, I can almost smell the mountains.
Plan for the Matterhorn Creek hike