I pull on some clothes and head down to splash some water on my face. Doug and Nancy are still in their tents, but much of the camp has stirred to life. A woman passes me struggling under the weight of two water carriers. A mom dishes porridge into the bowls five yawning children. A solo with earbuds flashes me the peace sign. A scowling park employee in rubber boots motors past in a utility cart loaded down with buckets and mops. There's a job I do not want.
The toilette is dark but for a faint glow. I barely pick out shapes. Two men are deliberating between stalls. "You gotta take the Lewis Creek trail," says one. "Amazing views."
"Done it. Twice." responds another. "Ever do Red Peak from Washburn Lake?"
"Not yet."
"Dude! Gotta do."
Back in camp, waiting for my oatmeal to hydrate, I have a front-row view of the morning exodus. It's like watching a dance from the sidelines. Three determined twenty-something guys race past with clacking sticks. Two older guys with fishing rods protruding like antennas from their packs give a sharp salute. A couple of gesticulating young women in trail runners and matching gaiters stride off while sharing an energy bar. A group of gabbling families amble past with impatient teenagers in the lead.
The sight of all those happy pairings stirs an old and fickle yearning. At one moment it says, "you are left out." The next it clamors to bolt the idiocy of group think. It wants what it cannot have and has what it does not want. I decide to break camp. I will not make myself crazy. Never mind about Doug or Nancy. Time to go. I'm not here for social obligations. I'm here for the solace of the Sierras.
My route follows the PCT north from Tuolumne Meadows through Glen Aulin to Matterhorn Canyon. The trail start about a half-mile north of the campground down a gravel road, across a busy highway and past Lambert Dome.
The first stretch is a dusty service road. It's a busy morning. A troop of scouts is up ahead is kicking up a ton of dust. A young couple passes. They carry lightweight packs and appear to be on a long walk. I remember them from last night's campfire. Then three shirtless studs with sunburned shoulders blow by like I'm standing still. You just expect this walking the PCT in Yosemite. I'm not concerned. The traffic should subside after Glen Aulin. It's out of range for day hikers and the PCT herd is long gone.
I catch up to the scouts at the junction to Young Lakes. They are all seated and munching matching oatmeal bars. The scout master is providing instruction. "A thousand years ago, Roman legions marched 30 miles per day. They could do this because they rested for 10 minutes every hour. You can too." I know this is incorrect, but no one seems to be listening, so I nod and walk on. The scout master gives me two thumbs up. I give him one.
 |
| Cathedral and Unicorn peaks off to the south |
The trail undulates through Jeffrey pines along side the River. A flock of Bushtits follow along like they are curious about some strange creature. The woods open onto a sequence of granodiorite slabs. Each slab is the size of a neighborhood. I follow the cairns across.
I remember this place. I was here 30 years ago with the Swonks. That was before I met Lilalee. We went down a granite slab to the River and walked a ways down stream where we found a cove with a granite beach and a pool with a sandy bottom. I seemed like paradise.
I decide to look. I follow the slab down and search downstream. I find it. It is a lovely as I remember. I dump my pack on a boulder and walk down to the water. It is cold, but the rock is warm and spot sunny. I look around. This place is secluded. Why not take a dip?
There's a horse whistle. "Whooo-hoo! Whooo-hoo!"
Three women are standing on an outcrop across the river. They are waving big and friendly. "Whooo-hoo! Whooo-hoo!"
My limbic doppelganger dumps a double dose of adrenaline. I am mortified. I grab my towel and dash for the trees. The show is over; they leave. I grab my clothes. I nearly pitch over in a haste to be decent and then scurry away as if escaping the scene of a crime. My thoughts are a jumble of shame and exasperation. It's not like I'm 20. The sight of me is more likely to scare than thrill. Forty years ago I would have waved back with the towel. And now...? I never meant to be proper. Like pretty much everything else, it's not what I intended.
No sooner do I rejoin the trail than I encounter a female forest park ranger with a shiny badge and a side arm. She sizes me up as if she can tell I've done something wrong.
"Good morning sir," she says in that officially polite way that demands cooperation despite being six inches shorter and about as old as our god daughter. "May I see your permit?"
I drop my pack and fish the permit from the upper pocket. Something about the gun makes her seem vulnerable, more so that the dozens of solo women I've seen on the trail. Without thinking, I stupidly blurt out, "Are you out here by yourself?"
"Yes, sir," she says. "I'm a commissioned law officer."
"That was a stupid. I apologize."
"No apology needed." She hands back the permit. "Please keep this with you at all times." With a reprimanding look she adds, "It's a $200 fine to hike without a permit." She waits to see if I understand and then, with mock gravity, she continues, "But then you already have a permit don't you?" She breaks out a big toothy grin and she departs. Her stride is quick and graceful. Her pack is big and heavy. She carries it as if it was was filled with feathers. Just our of earshot, I hear her say, "Have a good hike."
As I head on toward Glen Aulin it's with some regret that I didn't learn more about her so I think up a story as a way of becoming acquainted.
 |
| View from the bridge at the top of Tuolumne Falls |
The trail climbs up and above the river before crossing a bridge at the top of the Tuolumne Falls. From the bridge, there's a long view to the west down Tuolumne canyon. The trail then climbs up and around gaining artistic perspectives of the water roaring down the granite.
I come across a dozen teen-age girls and moms having lunch on an mist-swept outcrop. Their packs are neatly piled together. The girls are laughing, screeching and taking pictures. Their joy is infectious. I stop to watch the glinting water, the girls and the rising mist. I kick something. There's a horseshoe in the dirt at my feet.
I pick it up. One of the moms approaches with a smile. "Whatcha got there?"
"Luck, I hope."
"Gonna keep it?" she asks. I offer it to her. "No, but thanks," she says, "I don't think you can keep luck."
She explains they are a church group from San Bernardino on a 3-day trip down Tuolumne Canyon. "Are you hiking alone?" she asks. "Would you like to join us for lunch? We have plenty." I decline. She insists on taking my picture. As much as I would like, I can't quibble when people are this kind.
I carry the horseshoe down to the Glen Aulin camp office. I figure the wranglers who run the pack trains might need it. I knock on the screen door.
"We're closed," calls a voice from somewhere inside.
I call back, "I found this horse shoe and I just want to drop it off."
"Wait a minute."
A tall, thin fellow in an apron with a queue down well down his back and two ear piercings steps out. I hand him the horseshoe. He turns it over and feels it's heft. "Cool man. We need these to play horse shoes. This is a good one. If you stick around we can play a game."
"Love to but..."
"I know," he says. "Everyone is going somewhere." As an after thought he adds, "Want an apple? We have an extra."
I take the apple, grab a bench seat by the fire ring, and meditate on the roar of the Tuolumne River as it crashes down the White Cascade. I break out my usual lunch of a Justin's Almond butter tortilla, beef jerky, trail mix, and water. An older fellow, well into his 70's takes an adjoining bench and opens a book. We trade nods. "What are you reading?" I ask.
"A spy novel," he answers. "I don't read serious books any more. Too depressing. Where you headed?"
"McCabe Lake or maybe just Return Creek."
"Been there often," he says. "I've hiked all over these mountains. Do it while you can."
"I'm trying."
"You can't count on things," he adds oblivous or indifferent to my answer. He points to a beetle crawling in the dust near our feet. "See that beetle? His fate rests entirely in our hands. One minute he exists, boom, the next he's just molecules. The way I see it, we're just beetles waiting on the irrational judgement of some higher order. That's why I read spy novels." He cracks a big and clearly ironic smile. "What do you read?"
A lady about my age with pink streaks in her hair steps out of a tent cabins and takes a bench across from us. The older fellow leans over and, in sotto voice, says, "I think she's kinda cute, but somebody ought to tell her she's not 20 anymore. That pink makes her look desperate. Good talking to you son."
He walks over and takes a seat by the lady. I cannot hear what they say, but I can see she is laughing.
The trail climbs out of Glen Aulin through a mile of forest. Almost no one is on the trail. A mom and her adult daughter pass me on their way to Sonora Pass. They are celebrating her 50th birthday.
The forest opens onto an enormous meadow. There are views of Mount Conness and Sheeps Peak to the east. This is a long, waterless, uphill stretch with a gentle grade. A half-dozen deer graze at the far end of meadow. They scatter. A southbound couple comes into view. They must have spooked the deer.
 |
| Cold Canyon |
"How far to Glen Aulin?" he asks.
"Couple hours." My answer is terse. I personally avoid the question. Seems to me you either know the way or will find out on my own.
"We are section hiking the PCT," he says. "We've just come from Twin Lakes."
"We done all of Southern California," she says.
"Cool," I respond with trumped up enthusiasm.
She squints at me. "You look familiar." she says with a squint. I have no clue about this woman except that her breasts are making it hard to concentrate. "Do you write a blog? Backpack something?"
The words are like a slap in face. "You read it?"
"Sometimes," she says. "I don't like it all that much. It's not my thing, I like the ones like Wild about hiking. Isn't it something though?"
"Quite a coincidence," I say. I don't say that every other person she passes on the trail is probably also writing a blog.
"Maybe you'll mention us."
"Definitely."
We part with handshake. They were giving me a headache.
It is well into the afternoon when I reach the far end of the meadow. My my legs are tired. My feet ache. My thoughts drift in and out of the unknown, except for moments of clarity about my feet. I want to press on the McCabe Lake junction before stopping. It's just 400 feet up.
By the time I get there it feels like 4,000. I drop my pack. I grab a Picky Bar from a side pocket, stretch out on a log and stare up at clouds as they scoot past the trees in a blue sky. I want to hike up to McCabe Lake, but that is another 2 miles and another 800 feet up. I'm tempted to just hike down to Return Creek. It put me closer to Mattherhorn. I won't have that kind of option on the JMT.
As luck would have it, a couple comes scuffling down the trail from McCabe Lake. We introduce ourselves. They use trail names. He is Greensleeves and she is Bellbottoms. Greensleeves tells me they are celebrating their tenth anniversary by repeating their honeymoon trip.
"We drank champagne again at Roosevelt Lake," he says.
"That's not all we did again," whispers Bellbottoms squeezing against him.
After they squeeze a bit more he asks, "Where you headed?"
"I'm debating about Lower McCabe Lake."
"Hope you don't mind skeeters," warns Bellbottoms. "I don't, but some people do."
"So true honey," he says to her and adds, "There's enough bugs up there to suck an elephant dry. Now you could go over the col. Hardly any bugs at Roosevelt."
This make the calculation simple. Unless I'm escaping a war zone, I'm not going over any col alone for the first time without a map or reading about the route. I thank them profusely and make my get away to Return Creek. A little of the love bird business goes a long way.
The trail crosses McCabe Creek just a few hundred yards before Return Creek. The McCabe crossing is muddy affair but a trail crew is camped there. Two guys and a woman are bathing just above the trail. A couple of men are poking sticks in a small fire. One fellow is leaning on a rock toking a joint. He waves. I feel like an intruder and walk on.
 |
| Return Creek |
I see that another backpacker has already set up about about 100 feet away. I walk over and introduce myself. "Mind if set up over there?"
"Help yourself," he says. "I'm Bob."
I make camp and then head over to the creek to clean up and filter water for dinner, breakfast and tomorrow's hike. The afternoon fades quickly and I add layers as the temperature drops. I boil some water and hydrate tonight's special: red bean chili with rice. While the beans soak it is a good chance for some neighborly chit chat with Bob.
Bob is cowboy camping. He is laying on his side and sits up as I approach.
"Don't mean to intrude."
"I was just resting for a minute. Got a headache."
He doesn't look well. "If you want to chat later, come on over. I'm just going to go eat."
He nods. "I'm not hungry." He gets on his feet slowly. He is unsteady. To my surprise, he follows me back.
Some people are slow to start talking. Not Bob. "I came over from Virginia Lakes," he says. "I'm on a 10-day trip. I just had this knee replaced. It's a bit swollen but fine. I'm just getting back into it. I'm from Sonoma. What about you?"
"LA."
"I used to live in LA when I got out of the service. Then I got work in Kings Canyon. Stayed 5 years. Did a lot of cooking. I've hiked all over the Sierras. Used to be good friends with Ranger John up in Vidette Meadow. Ever been there? Beautiful. So pretty. But I had to quit the Park after the helicopter rescue. Now I live in Sonoma. What do you do?"
"I'm retired," I say with the dawing realization that something's isn't right with Bob.
"I'll retire some day. Now I'm a librarian. Elementary school. Jerry Garcia's grand daughter went there. He came by once and played The Little White Duck. You know... "there's a little white duck sitting in the water, a little white duck doing what he oughter..."
"You were rescued?"
"That was a long time ago. 25 years. I had brain swelling. They were mean in the helicopter. Every one was shouting. It wasn't my fault. Somebody called them. That's how I met Becky. My wife. She's a nurse. I don't make much money. She's good to me, but I have to make my own gear. I made this down down poncho. Made my sleeping bag too. I learned to sew in the service. It's easy. You should try."
I'm worried. We are only at 8,400 feet but Bob isn't right.
"You should eat something. Can I make you some tea?"
"No thanks. I'm just tired," he says. "I was planning to go to Miller Lake tomorrow, but I think I'll just stay here for a while. I've done a lot of hiking. I've hiked all over the Sierras."
"Do you think you have altitude sickness?"
"I don't think so. I haven't had it in a long time. 10 years."
"You mean the helicopter rescue?"
"No, that was the first time." He presses his forehead with his hand. "I don't feel great. Do you think I might have altitude sickness?"
"Wait here," I say and head from my tent to get some Diamox. I think better of it. He might be allergic. I get some ibuprofen instead.
When I return he has gone. I walk over to his cowboy camp. He's lying on his bivvy."Take this," I say. "It'll help."
He nods and swallows the pills.
"Let's talk in the morning. OK?"
I walk a little ways from camp and lie down on a rock with a clear view of the sky. It's not quite dark, but Vega, Deneb and Altair are steady and bright like old friends. I lie there thinking until the milky way is visible. This wasn't the day I expected. But then I don't know what I expected, except it wasn't this. One things certain; you just don't leave someone in the mountains.