I wasn't so serene when we arrived in Mammoth. We spent two days acclimatizing. Maybe I wasn't used to the altitude. Maybe it was pre-hike nerves. Maybe it was the tourist prices, culinary pretensions and obsequious desk clerks. They rile me up. But, this was Lilalee's first stay in Mammoth and she wasn't letting my neurosis spoil her vacation. She was determined to enjoy the town. She forbid me to disparage any bourgeois pleasure or indulge in 'reverse snobbery.' I followed her into a hundreds of galleries and shops. She bought a new blouse and a vintage dress. I bought a 4-gram, key-chain thermometer. We took the scenic gondola ride up Mammoth Mountain for fifty bucks. We drank wine and nibbled tapenade at the Westin. Later, we had a very expensive Italian dinner. She wore her new blouse and looked very pretty. We held hands and sat close. All the while, the hike was never far from my thoughts. I wonder if they were for her. I know how she feels about it. We didn't talk about it. Why break the spell?
A paunchy, thick-armed fellow about my age with a steaming plate of eggs, bacon and pancakes takes a seat at the next table. He does not bother to pull out the chair. In one graceful move, he swings his leg over the chair back, lifts a forkful of egg from the descending plate and lands both his butt and his plate at the same, perfectly timed, instant. The young woman who served my coffee follows him with a syrup dispenser, a cup and a carafe of coffee. "Anything else Gus?"
Gus waits for the pour and says, "I'm good." He stirs in two sugars and slurps with an murmur of satisfaction. Despite the sub-40-degree chill, he seems comfy in a short-sleeve polyester shirt and dungarees.
"You must be a regular," I say meaning to be polite, but not intending to start a conversation.
"You could say that," he replies. "I drive up here from Stockton every other day. Weekends and holidays; rain or shine." He shovels in a few heaping forkfuls and then continues. "It's three hours, give or take. We have a contract with Delaware North. I deliver most of the food for here and Tuolumne. Sundries too."
"Got to be an early start."
"Early to bed; early to rise."
"You must miss the night life."
"In Stockton? Unless your big on bowling tournaments, there's not much to miss. Anyway, I've done my share of socializing." He laughs to himself. "Too much of my share. Now, I'd just assume keep my own hours and my own house. No need to argue with anyone. No need to compromise. Keeps it simple."
As he continues to eat, I want to ask if he's lonely, but think better of it and say nothing. We sit in silence. I lean back and stare up the road. He wipes up the last of of the maple syrup with his finger. and takes his plate inside. He returns with the coffee pot. "Want a refill? We aim to please here in Yosemite. Hope your a good tipper. Where you from?"
I explain that I'm retired, that I'm here with my wife and that we're from Los Angeles.
"I used to live in LA. Grew up in Lakeood. Used to be a CPA. Used to be married," he says. "After the wife got custody, I got a commercial license and have been driving ever since. I've driven this route for fifteen years. Know it like the back of my hand."
"Is it nice being up here all the time? Ever get in a little hiking?"
"Me? Hike? I'd rather go to church. At least you get someplace to sit. Besides," he says, "I'd rather watch football or play some golf when it's not too hot. No knock on you hikers, but some of your people off their noodle. Talk to the search and rescue people if you want to hear some stupid shit. And what with these college kids living like hobos. Always on the move. Broke. Eating out dumpsters. It's nuts.
But hell, I'm not judging. It gives me a job. I guess we all do what we gotta do." He emphasizes that point with a two-hand slap of the table and rises to his feet. "Have a good one mister."
I don't think you can fully appreciate the rumble of the diesel, the stench of the exhause, the backup safety beeping, or the rising pitch of the gears until you hear it in the stillness of the wilderness. It overwhelms the rest. But only briefly. It is the caviling of stellar jays and chatter of crows, the smoke from a campfire and the sun sparkling through the trees that endure. This is just another day.
I pull the cabin door. It squeals like a cat picking a fight. "Go away," she says and pulls the pillow over her head. "It's cold. I'm on vacation. Go for a walk."
I stroll up the road to the highway. It's an easy mile up a zero grade through the woods and past two meadows. The day is cloudless. My breath still condenses. A fog hangs on the meadow. There are still traces of paintbrush, penstemon and monkeyflower. I hear the wik-wik a red-shafted flicker. Then some drumming. I walk in. Stealthy. I see the shadow on a pitted truck. It creeps around. A hummingbird dives with a loud screech not twenty feet ahead. I hear a branch snap. A hundred feet beyond, a bear wanders out of the trees. I freeze. It pauses and sniffs at the air. My heart pounds. Its nose is black and moist. Its fur is dark brown and glistens. It's probably four-feet high at the hind quarter. It does not seem to notice me; or it doesn't care. But then it takes a few step in my direction and starts digging by a fallen log. I back away to the road to watch, wishing I'd had my camera.
Lilalee waves me over to the veranda. She's shares a table with a blue-eyed, freckled red-head, maybe fifty, with a pony tail pulled through a baseball cap. Her shorts, shirt and boots are REI. Their breakfast dishes have been pushed aside. I extend a handshake and introduce myself. "Tanya," she says. Her grip is very firm.
"I just saw a bear. In the meadow. Not a hundred feet away."
"That's pretty close," says Tanya with a nod and discerning frown.
"He's fearless," says Lilalee to Tanya and turns to me. "I told her you leave for the JMT tomorrow."
"I'm always a bit jittery before a big hike," says Tanya.
I shrug, but the suggestion releases a pulse of anxiety.
"Next year she's hiking the PCT with her daughter," says Lilalee.
"Intrepid," I say. "No doubt the old man can't keep up."
"No doubt," replies Tanya with a shrug. "He died in February."
There's an awkward silence. Lilalee shakes her head to assure me that I'm no master of tact. I apologize.
"It's fine," says Tanya. "The bastard basically drank himself to death. On the bright side, he left us with a cozy fortune and we were in love once."
"I adore this woman," says Lilalee putting a hand on Tanya's arm.
"Lilalee is not so lucky," I quip. "I don't drink much and I'm not leaving her a fortune." Neither woman appreciates the wit, and I immediately doubt there was any. "Do you hike much?" I ask moving on to a better topic.
Tanya nods. "I grew up hiking. My Dad was a geologist. My daughter has been hiking since she was three. She did the AT last year. You'll probably meet her. She's been hiking up Tuolumne Canyon with her brand-new boy friend. They'll be here tonight."
"You're meeting him for the first time?" I ask.
"You're being nosy," says Lilalee.
Tanya is undeterred. "First time OK. She picked this one up in law school. Tonight it's pajamas and separate bunks." With a sardonic smile she adds, "I brought him a pair just in case. Want to see?"
We laugh. I'm remember meeting LilaLee's parents. It was surreal. We had dinner. It was as if we had just been seated at a table inches away from another couple and no one wanted to be overhead except in very bland conversation. According to Lilalee it went well, but I never really knew what they thought of me, except perhaps that I was odd but not evil. I suspect that if Tanya's daughter is pretty as her mother, she'll have many suitors. This new boy friend won't have it so easy. He will need his 'A' game to survive. I'm not finding fault. There's no shortage of disappointment, divorce and death down the road. If I were Tanya, I'd be sure that someone kicked the tires plenty hard. Better to make the trip with a good car.
"We're going to Lukens Lake," says Lilalee to Tanya. "Want to join us?" She doesn't ask me, because she knows I won't mind. I never have and never would. You might think that we should be spending some special 'together' time before tomorrow. We won't see each other for a while. But somehow it seems better not to make a special 'to-do' of it. Tomorrow does seem a bit overwhelming.
I check my watch. In twenty-four hours we meet Duane at the Curry Village Pavilion. In twenty-seven hours we step off the Mono Meadow Trailhead. I'm glad for the day hike. Tomorrow will come one way or another.
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| En route to Lukens Lake |