It's the sounds outside that wake me. I crawl from the tent. The morning is still cold. Low dark clouds pass overhead.
Duane is boiling water. "I'm heating an extra cup, want some?" I nod and fetch my canister. My hands are numb: I can't get my knife behind the locking tab or spin the lid. "Want me to get it?" he says. I step aside. He opens it effortlessly.
I get the cup off my cookset and dump in a coffee packet. He fills it. The effort leaves me winded and unsteady. We sit and sip a while. "How you feeling?" he asks.
The words slip out. "Not great." Soon as I say them, I know there's no taking them back. Feelings of failure and shame bubble up. I take a few slurps. It is hot and soothing.
"Have you been thinking about it?" he asks.
"Nothing else," I reply.
"Well?"
"I've got to get down. If I go over the pass, the closest place is Shadow Lake. That's 13 miles. If I turn back, I could be down in an hour. Maybe I could just stay in the canyon and try again tomorrow. Or maybe I could try the pass and see how I feel."
Duane shakes his head. "I'm not letting you do that." He waits from me to comment. I vacillate between relief and resentment. I say nothing. "Remember our deal?" he continues. "We said if one of us gets in trouble, we both have to agree."
I remember. That's what we said.
"But you have to go on," I say. "You have to keep going."
"Are you sure?" he says. "I think I better walk you to Tuolumne."
"I'm sure. The coffee helps." I say reassuringly. But it really doesn't.
There's not much else to say. We just sit for a while. Maybe because some moments take time to absorb because they don't seem quite real. Then I remember. "You'll probably want this," I say and hand him the spork.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
"I don't need it. And take want you want from my canister. It'll be less to carry."
While he is picking through my canister I get our permit from my pack. "You'll also need this."
"This is weird," he says.
We break camp. It takes me a while. I can't keep straight what to do next. I have to stop to catch my breath. Duane offers to help, but doesn't rush me. Then there's nothing left to do but move on. He shoulders his pack. We shake hands. I can see he is anxious. Not just for me. There some jitters. He'll be spending a lot of time alone.
"Sorry I let you down."
"Be safe," he says.
I watch as he disappears up the trail heading for Donahue Pass.
The descent down the cobble stones steps is scary. My balance is messed up. My feet won't go where I want. The pack makes it worse. I steady each step with both poles. I almost fall down some cobblestone steps. I drop to my butt and I start sliding down a step at a time. I am breathing hard. My heart pounds. A millennial couple passes. They are concerned. I assure them I'm fine. They hike on. I keep at it. Slowly.
Then the air smells of rain. I breath it in. This time my breath sticks. My breathing evens out. My heart beats easier. I take to my feet. It feels steady. I descend slowly then pick up my pace. I cover a few more switchbacks. I feel better with every step and then realize, I am fine — as if nothing was ever really wrong.
Just ahead a couple is coming up the trail. It is Randi and Sheri. The sight of them lifts my spirits.
"You're going the wrong way," says Randy cheerfully.
"I got sick." I say.
They trade glances. "Get some rest. Try tomorrow" says Sherry encouragingly.
"It's the altitude. I can't do it."
It takes a second for the situation to sink in. "That sucks!" exclaims Randy.
"What about two-pad?" asks Sherry.
I tell them he is doing the hike. He's going to Whitney. "He'll zero at Reds. Maybe you'll see him."
It is a somber parting. We promise to email.
I walk on. Dark clouds race in overhead. The wind picks up. Heavy drops start to fall all around kicking up puffs of dust. I pick up my pace. The rain quickens to a downpour. I run under a tree and slip on my rain shell. A thunder clap shakes my every part. The boom echos down the canyon. The rain turns sideways on fierce gusts. Curtains of marble-size hail sweeps across the canyon. The hailstones bounce a foot off the ground. I watch in wonder and try to absorb this change in my circumstance. I am no longer hiking the JMT.
The worst of the storm passes leaving a light rain. I move on. My shell keeps me dry. The sun breaks through. There's a double rainbow framing Amelia Earheart Peak. All around the leaves and branches glisten. A flock of Bushtits flutter from bush to bush pacing my progress. I'll be in Tuolumne soon.
I arrive in the early afternoon. I call home. Luckily LilaLee answers. "Why are you calling? What's wrong?"
"I got sick. I'm coming home. I'll be there in a couple days."
"Stay there," she says. "I'll come get you tomorrow."
I hang up with a feeling of deep sadness. How did I ever get so lucky?
I find an isolated campsite in the back of the Backpacker's camp away from everyone. I set up, nibble some trailmix and nap away the day. Occasionally I check my watch to estimate Duane's progress.
As the shade deepens in the late afternoon I feel hungry. I walk to the Grill an order a burger. A double, but no fries. I sit with other hikers. Their energy is palpable. I'm surrounded by simultaneous conversations about hiking adventures. I can't track any of them.
Before heading back to the camp, I decide to walk over to the amphitheater to see if there's a campfire talk. Ranger Jean is there with all her big wall climbing gear. She recognizes me.
"I remember you. I remember what you said." she says. "Would you help with my demonstration?" She wants me to hold a belaying device while she yanks on a rope. I agree and then help her carry some wood for the camp fire.
"Aren't you hiking the JMT?" she asks.
"No. Not any more. I was almost to Donahue Pass. I couldn't take the altitude. I had to come down just."
She puts a very reassuring hand on my forearm. "I'm so very sorry."
The reassuring touch releases the loss that I've carried all day. Permanent loss. The kind that comes later in life. The kind that can't be explained, but only felt.
"But you'll figure it out," she says. "I know you will."
While I wish it wasn't so, I know she is wrong. What does it matter? There's comfort in simply letting her be right.