tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83817806055458753952024-03-08T13:04:29.873-08:00The Ramblings of a Guy with a BackpackReports from the real and not-so-real trailKenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-60861994620471829612014-10-01T09:46:00.000-07:002017-11-08T17:06:08.379-08:00EpilogueWhen I was a skinny, highschool kid, a full foot shorter than full height, I worked after school and on weekends at a dry cleaning plant. I manned the counter. <br />
<br />
The pants presser, Mr. Tommy, took an interest in me. I wouldn't call it a liking. Mr.Tommy was an imposing, dark-complected, black man. Everyone respected him. He played semi-pro ball. Julia, the dress presser, told me he would have been pro if he hadn't been ruined his knee. One time Mr. Tommy lifted me over his head with one arm just because I said he couldn't. <br />
<br />
Mr. Tommy was something of a philosopher. Every now and then he would wave me over. "Come here," he'd say. "I've got something to tell you." He always got straight to the point. It was usually something like:"you talk too much," or "take a load off and enjoy life." One time he told me, "You can shit in one hand and wish in the other and see which one fills up first." But there's one thing he told me that has really stuck. He told me, "No point in loving something if it doesn't love you back."<br />
<br />
I suppose that's the way it is for me and high elevation. All summer my friends have tried to convince me there's plenty of good hiking at lower elevations. Maybe they are right. A sensible person would know it's time to face the obvious and move on to other pursuits. <br />
<br />
If you're wondering, Duane finished his John Muir Trail hike. He finished right on schedule and brought back dozens of magnificent photos. I met him at the portal, bought him a steak in Lone Pine and drove him home the next day. There was more than a little vicarious pleasure in that. <br />
<br />
As a closing thought, I want to thank to all of you dear readers who have followed these postings. I like to believe you found some pleasure in these rambles. <br />
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If for some odd reason, you happen to be hiking in the San Gabriels, and run across an old guy with over-sized sunglasses puttering along, please say hello. Meanwhile... happy hiking!<br />
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<br />Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-52349523875113170652014-09-08T16:44:00.000-07:002017-10-08T11:30:23.412-07:00JMT day 5: DescentI must have fallen asleep. At least now there's a gloomy twilight. I pull on my pants and step out into a cold, featureless mist. Aside from the peaceful gurgle from the creek. there is only muffled silence. I wish there was something to take my mind off of breathing. I sigh deeply as if that would stop the the panting; it's doesn't. My options keep spinning in my mind like some sardonic loop that always ends the same. Coffee might help, but I'm not up for it. I crawl back into the UL-1. Laying down feels lousy, so I sit up and wrap my bag around my shoulders. <br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
It's the sounds outside that wake me. I crawl from the tent. The morning is still cold. Low dark clouds pass overhead. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
"Have you been thinking about it?" he asks.<br />
<br />
"Nothing else," I reply.<br />
<br />
"Well?"<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
I remember. That's what we said. <br />
<br />
"But you have to go on," I say. "You have to keep going."<br />
<br />
"Are you sure?" he says. "I think I better walk you to Tuolumne."<br />
<br />
"I'm sure. The coffee helps." I say reassuringly. But it really doesn't.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Are you sure?" he asks.<br />
<br />
"I don't need it. And take want you want from my canister. It'll be less to carry."<br />
<br />
While he is picking through my canister I get our permit from my pack. "You'll also need this."<br />
<br />
"This is weird," he says.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
"Sorry I let you down."<br />
<br />
"Be safe," he says. <br />
<br />
I watch as he disappears up the trail heading for Donahue Pass. <br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Just ahead a couple is coming up the trail. It is Randi and Sheri. The sight of them lifts my spirits. <br />
<br />
"You're going the wrong way," says Randy cheerfully.<br />
<br />
"I got sick." I say. <br />
<br />
They trade glances. "Get some rest. Try tomorrow" says Sherry encouragingly.<br />
<br />
"It's the altitude. I can't do it."<br />
<br />
It takes a second for the situation to sink in. "That sucks!" exclaims Randy.<br />
<br />
"What about two-pad?" asks Sherry.<br />
<br />
I tell them he is doing the hike. He's going to Whitney. "He'll zero at Reds. Maybe you'll see him." <br />
<br />
It is a somber parting. We promise to email.<br />
<br />
<hr><br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
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I arrive in the early afternoon. I call home. Luckily LilaLee answers. "Why are you calling? What's wrong?"<br />
<br />
"I got sick. I'm coming home. I'll be there in a couple days."<br />
<br />
"Stay there," she says. "I'll come get you tomorrow."<br />
<br />
I hang up with a feeling of deep sadness. How did I ever get so lucky?<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
"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. <br />
<br />
"Aren't you hiking the JMT?" she asks.<br />
<br />
"No. Not any more. I was almost to Donahue Pass. I couldn't take the altitude. I had to come down just."<br />
<br />
She puts a very reassuring hand on my forearm. "I'm so very sorry." <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"But you'll figure it out," she says. "I know you will."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-37528075527325315392014-09-07T23:59:00.000-07:002017-08-05T09:21:27.174-07:00Approaching midnight<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-upy-BLbLqpM/WYH0eG2pklI/AAAAAAAAMmA/m80uMyBCPzw7Rr88SUDbKaGPcLtF74yLQCLcBGAs/s1600/DSC03673.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1230" data-original-width="1600" height="246" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-upy-BLbLqpM/WYH0eG2pklI/AAAAAAAAMmA/m80uMyBCPzw7Rr88SUDbKaGPcLtF74yLQCLcBGAs/s320/DSC03673.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I startle wake up with the dream image of Lilalee refusing to believe I wasn't coming back. I realize I am panting and my heart is thumping so hard I feel it in my back. Red flashes with white tails race across the pitch blackness and vanish in milliseconds.<br />
<br />
Try as I might, I can't catch my breath. Then I remember: it's the same symptoms. It's Desolation Lake and East Lake all over again. How can it be? I'm acclimatized. <br />
<br />
I grope for my watch. The hands are still glowing. 11:15. That's it?! Just 11:15.<br />
<br />
There is light patter on the tent. I reach up into the mesh pocket for glasses and headlamp. I unzip the rain fly for air. The night is completely dark. There's a light rain. It feels very cold. I might as well pee. I slip on my coat and flip flops to head for the bushes. I am wobbly. I don't go far and scurry back to the tent.<br />
<br />
Impatiently, I scrounge around for the ditty bag with the Diamox. There three half pills left. I take them all. I turn off the light and wait. And wait. And wait.<br />
<br />
My heart beats are audible. I try to breathe normal, but end up gasping. Every moment is forever. I roll from side to side for relief. I still can't catch a good breath. I check my watch. 11:35. <br />
<br />
There's no mistaking, I am not right. I have to get lower. <br />
<br />
I turn on the headlamp and pull out the map. We're camped at 9,650. Tomorrow we climb Donahue Pass; that is another 1,800 feet up. Tomorrow night we plan to camp at Garnet Lake. That's just too high. What if I made it to Shadow Lake? I could get below 9,000 feet, but that means walking a over thirteen miles without getting a foot lower. How can I make that it if I can't even catch my breath when laying down? <br />
<br />
There's the other option. I could go back down Lyell Canyon. In an hour I could be at a lower elevation. Maybe I could just camp at Lyell Forks tomorrow and try the ascent the day after. I wonder how I'll be in the morning. I can't decide now.<br />
<br />
It's 11:55. I turn off the light and hyperventilate to no avail. The sad truth now seems inescapable. It's going to be a long night. Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-11848821279336062402014-09-07T16:57:00.000-07:002017-10-08T11:30:23.394-07:00Day 4: Lyell ForksWhen eating freezer-bag oatmeal, I strongly recommend the <i>spork method</i> over the <i>two-twig method</i>. It's still just oatmeal, but the advantages over the two-twig are manifold. For starters, it doesn't taste like twig. More significant is the personal pride that comes meeting other hikers in an oatmeal-free shirt — which can be quite significant if you have yet to acquire a trail name. <br />
<br />
I'm jumpy with anticipation. I gobble down breakfast. The morning is bright and blue. The Stellar Jays are swooping above, eager for us to leave. It's our last full day in the park. Tomorrow we will be hiking in the Ansel Adams Wilderness. <br />
<br />
We decide to pick up the JMT where it intersects the Tioga highway and avoid getting lost again in the campground. On the way out we check all the sites for Sherry and Randy. Apparently they camped somewhere back by Cathedral Lakes. Hopefully we'll see them again when we zero at Reds.<br />
<br />
We pick up the trail near the pack station on a shadeless, trampled meadow. The track has been ground to a slippery sand and blended with horse droppings. It's very popular with the local horse flies. <br />
<br />
After a sweaty slog, we get to a stand of cool piney woods. The trees echo with the chatter of hidden voices from the breakfast serving at Tuolumne Lodge. Further on, the trail merges with the path from the Lodge. We fall in with a half-dozen groups of day hikers. Their attire is as colorful as the REI catalog. I can smell their deodorant and shampoo. We march in the crowd over the twin bridges at the Lyell Fork. The day hikers stop mid bridge in clots to take photos of the depleted creek. Just up stream, a pair of pretty moms watch their kids climb on rust-stained boulders and a dad shows two boys how to push a nightcrawler on a hook. One pinches his face in disgust. <br />
<br />
By the time we cross the Rafferty Creek bridge, we are no longer in a crowd. Bushtits are fluttering along with us. The woods open up on desiccated meadows. We catch an occasional glimpse of Lyell creek. And then the trail bends south. And the canyon opens up before us.<br />
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We pick up our pace. My legs feel strong. I carry a full resupply, enough for the next three days, but I hardly notice my pack except for the feeling of independence it gives me. Food, shelter, bedding, protection against the cold and insects, water purification, light for darkness, clean underwear and a plenty of extras that would surly earn the scorn of John Muir not to mention the light weight backpacking crowd.<br />
<br />
We break for lunch under a tree near a wide and shallow bend in the the creek. Every 10 minutes or so a group passes. I can tell by their packs that most are JMTers. We will likely see many down the trail. <br />
<br />
After lunch, Duane takes a snooze. I walk over to the creek to filter a liter. The water is translucent and ripples gently around algae covered rocks. Ten feet away, a fish the size of a dinner roll nibbles at a rock just out of reach. He seems to stare at me. He must know I would sooner eat quinoa or kale than fish.<br />
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Our hour of leisure is over too soon. We hoist our packs. I'm a bit bonked after eating. The day has turned hot. I lapse into a mindless march. I don't know what I'm thinking except of the patch of dirt 3 feet in front of me. Duane pulls out a few hundred yards ahead. I feel no need to hurry. <br />
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Just before we come to the Evelyn Creek junction, a Nobo hiker heads towards us at a quick clip. He stops Duane. They are talking. I hurry to join. It's a park ranger. He is not friendly. "Let me see your permit," he says. I am prepared. I drop my pack and pull the permit from the top pocket of my Mariposa. The ranger examines it and hands it back. "Very good," he says and returns the permit. We watch him hike away. <br />
<br />
"Friendly sort," I say sarcastically.<br />
<br />
Duane nods. "He was in a hurry. There's a fire near Half-Dome. They are rescuing people with helicopters."<br />
<br />
We were just there. Not two days ago. I look up. There's not a trace of smoke. Just a few fast moving puffy clouds. <br />
<br />
"Do you think we looked suspicious?"<br />
<br />
"Nah," replies Duane. "He wasn't looking to catch anyone. He was looking not to. If we don't look legal, who does?"<br />
<br />
I look back. The ranger is just a dot down the canyon. He must be a man of principle. I worry at the power of principle. They can make a good person do evil or an evil person do good. Still, it is worse to be unprincipled and be a slave to slightest whiff on an idea. How can a soul be certain? <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Approaching the south end of Lyell Canyon</td></tr>
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We gain a couple hundred feet as we approach the south end of the canyon. The meadows are golden brown and rimmed with dark green pines. Snowy peaks are just ahead. We start our only climb of the day; an 800 foot ascent up a set of switchbacks paved with high cobblestone steps. My breath is short; I tire quickly. Before pressing on, I look back on the creek as it winds through the last meadow and regret I had not done more training. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lyell Fork winds through Lyell Canyon</td></tr>
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<br />
We cross the Lyell Creek Bridge and drop our packs in a well-establish spot. I think we may be too close to the creek, but I'm too tired to care. Duane sets up his tarp. I decide to go to the creek, for water and a wipe down. <br />
<br />
I squat on the bank and start filtering. My foot slips. The boot fills with water. It is shockingly cold. I find a flat rock and sit to steady myself. I filter a liter. Then another. Then I drop a bottle cap in the creek. It is gone in a flash. Thankfully I have an extra. I fill my 2-liter Platypus and carelessly knock it over. I start over again. <br />
<br />
Back at our site I pull my tent from the stuff sacks. I can't get the poles or stakes right. It takes me four tries and half an hour. I feel woozy. I wonder if it is yesterday's french fries. <br />
<br />
I decide to walk around a bit. I head back down the trail to get a view of the canyon. Smoke from the fire has drifted in from the west. I'm glad we up here. Camping in the canyon won't be pleasant. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smoke from the Meadow fire drifts into Lyell Canyon</td></tr>
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<br />
I return to the campground and climb up to check some the sites on the opposite shore. I meet a father and son who are planning to spend a few days fishing in McClure lake. The dad plans to summit Mt. Lyell. I leave feeling defeated by their plans. <br />
<br />
The day is fading quickly. Clouds are moving in. The light is yellow. The creek turns the color of orange sherbet. Maybe eating with improve things.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4sO4Wt3Diog/WXu9pXruARI/AAAAAAAAMjc/ITs2lzp4_PI54aV2_dXFK6q9oL3QrapfwCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4854.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4sO4Wt3Diog/WXu9pXruARI/AAAAAAAAMjc/ITs2lzp4_PI54aV2_dXFK6q9oL3QrapfwCLcBGAs/s640/IMG_4854.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lyell Fork about 2 miles below the Donahue Pass.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Duane has dumped all his gear on his ground cloth. "You won't believe this," he says.<br />
<br />
"What?"<br />
<br />
"I've lost my spork!" <br />
<br />
I can see he expecting me to laugh, but there is no laugh in me. I just reply, "I don't have an extra. We can share." <br />
<br />
"Are you OK?" he asks.<br />
<br />
"I just need something to eat." <br />
<br />
I grab my bear canister and my cookset and sit on the smooth log that stretches between our tents. I squeeze the canister between my knees and exhaust myself trying to open it. <br />
<br />
"Want me to do that?" he offers.<br />
<br />
"I'm all thumbs," I explain. <br />
<br />
He sits next to me and has the lid off in seconds. I hand him the spork. I dig around in the canister for dinner options: 'Ham-bits, Cabbage and Potatoes,' Chicken Noodle' or 'Beef Stew.' None of it seems appetizing. I decide on stew. The first bite triggers a gag reflex. <br />
<br />
Duane is watching me carefully.<br />
<br />
"I can't eat this," I say. "Is it OK to bury it?"<br />
<br />
"You really should carry it out," says Duane.<br />
<br />
I know he is right, but the thought of putting the watery slush in my bear canister with my other food is reviling. My best option seems to be to choke it down. I do.<br />
<br />
The light fades and a chill presses in. Overhead the clouds thicken. I feel very cold. It's not yet dark, but I decide to crawl in my bag early and get warm. I must feel better tomorrow. Our day starts with a 1,500 foot ascent over the Pass.<br />
<br />
Campsite: Lyell Forks: 9,670<br />
Elevation: +1,663, -693<br />
Today: 9 mi<br />
Total trip: 38.4Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-28536611900055489042014-09-06T16:20:00.000-07:002017-10-08T11:30:23.403-07:00Day 3: Tuolumne backpacker's campIt's nearly six. I never sleep this late. I'm a little sore, but rested. Best of all I don't feel any effects from the altitude. <br />
<br />
I slip on the clammy clothes and climb out. The morning is brisk and bright. There are tranquil reflections in the lake. Time has shifted. The work-a-day obligations forgotten. The day of the week extraneous. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mWfXwwqsCSs/WXkz3D2HuqI/AAAAAAAAMiA/apBGJcCyxTkCHV7DjgffOod8x8Pry5OFwCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4764.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="785" data-original-width="1600" height="314" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mWfXwwqsCSs/WXkz3D2HuqI/AAAAAAAAMiA/apBGJcCyxTkCHV7DjgffOod8x8Pry5OFwCLcBGAs/s640/IMG_4764.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise Lake at Sunrise</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Duane is stirring over in his tarp tent. Time to boil breakfast, stuff the ditty bags, compress the sleeping bag, deflate the NeoAir and restuff the Mariposa. But there's no hurry. No big climbs today. Just an easy 11 JMT miles over a well traveled part of Yosemite to Tuolumne Meadows. Tonight I eat at the Grill. I can almost taste the burgers and fries.<br />
<br />
Our day begins with a modest ascent over the northern shoulder of Sunset Mountain. The tread is decomposed granite. It is like trudging up hill through beach sand. I rapidly work up the day's first sweat. <br />
<br />
We descend eastward down a set of trenched switch backs and land in the Sunrise Backpacker's Camp. A dozen hikers are breaking camp. Sunrise has deluxe accommodations: a tap that delivers potable water and a statuesque pit toilette sitting atop a pinth of local rock. I pull in for a pit stop. In the days ahead, we will only be able to imagine such luxury. <br />
<br />
We scamper down onto Long Meadow where we rejoin the JMT. The dought has reduced the meadow to bare sand and parched grasses. Just ahead, the Sunrise High Sierra Camp sits atop a ganite ledge 20 feet above the Meadow. Cozy clouds of blue smoke rise from the wood stoves in the tent cabins. The smells of sizzling bacon and maple syrup waft from the dinning room. I am salivating. What must the bears think? How strong the temptation must be. Imagine if they were protected by the second amendment. What extremes might they use?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yFSIJhI1r4M/WXYaIzbU39I/AAAAAAAAMgY/VgQESMSezaQUp09BxHb2DuhSewgV4VC6gCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4785.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="495" data-original-width="1600" height="198" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yFSIJhI1r4M/WXYaIzbU39I/AAAAAAAAMgY/VgQESMSezaQUp09BxHb2DuhSewgV4VC6gCLcBGAs/s640/IMG_4785.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parched Long Meadow</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We pass below a couple of Starbucks-sipping, grey beards who are perched on boulder with their legs are dangling like a pair of teenagers. <br />
<br />
"Never seen it like this," says one.<br />
<br />
"Another dry winter and the park will be a tenderbox," says the other.<br />
<br />
On the bright side, the weather is great.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-swfe1CkWerI/WXYeCQwzggI/AAAAAAAAMhI/plTGqRljTyc7aBDsgeCJdACoNclD0ChhgCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4789.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="881" data-original-width="1600" height="352" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-swfe1CkWerI/WXYeCQwzggI/AAAAAAAAMhI/plTGqRljTyc7aBDsgeCJdACoNclD0ChhgCLcBGAs/s640/IMG_4789.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Columbia Finger. Tresidder Peak in distance</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Long Meadow seems to stretch on endlessly. We are no longer alone. There's a group a few hundred yards up ahead, a group a few hundred yards behind and another group a few hundred yards behind them. It's like a migration without the Conestogas. No doubt all JMTers. <br />
<br />
Eventually we approach the north end of the Long Meadow and the ascent to Cathedral Pass. Columbia Finger comes into view. Then Echo Peaks. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hP00XRpx7xI/WXk0nVgZYTI/AAAAAAAAMiE/GMCx-kJcvOMmDMD3kZuuhLborNlODW2WgCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="958" data-original-width="1600" height="382" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hP00XRpx7xI/WXk0nVgZYTI/AAAAAAAAMiE/GMCx-kJcvOMmDMD3kZuuhLborNlODW2WgCLcBGAs/s640/IMG_4797.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Echo Peaks</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I hear a soft clucking. Not 5 feet off the trail, a pair of Blue Grouse are pecking for beetles among the rocks. We stop. One give us an irritated look and then just keep pecking. One by one, other hikers stop and admire. If these Blue Grouse were wit smarter, would put out a busker's hat and collect trail mix. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CpQ5ANkUokQ/WXYaURWTRGI/AAAAAAAAMgc/P1rKmy3v7FsUrfN-s7SgbsKAH3D_4QHtQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4802.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CpQ5ANkUokQ/WXYaURWTRGI/AAAAAAAAMgc/P1rKmy3v7FsUrfN-s7SgbsKAH3D_4QHtQCLcBGAs/s400/IMG_4802.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blue Grouse</td></tr>
</tbody></table>As we push up to Cathedral Pass, the traffic increases. Within a matter of minutes, three solos blast past. Their ears are stuffed with ear buds; their heads down. I cannot fathom their purpose. They could be listening to the wind or the rattle of the leaves or try to gaze on the immense exposed granite as a sign of earth's time and space. I want to take away their ear buds. I want to tell them there's more to life than miles per day.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0nhadgslz6Y/WXYac_Tv8mI/AAAAAAAAMgg/_3o4THxDHqQvZb-m2pbFV11ZS5g6RIrTgCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4809.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="530" data-original-width="1600" height="105" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0nhadgslz6Y/WXYac_Tv8mI/AAAAAAAAMgg/_3o4THxDHqQvZb-m2pbFV11ZS5g6RIrTgCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_4809.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Duane meets Kiwi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Up ahead Duane is stopped by four lady hikers from Cleveland. They are old friends and new to the Sierras. It's an exuberant group on their first leg of a High Sierra Camp Loop. They want to know the name of Echo and Tresidder peaks. They want to know where than can go swimming. They plan a side trip to Cloud's Rest on the way to May Lake.<br />
<br />
"Ya'll seem so energized," I say.<br />
<br />
"We've got a secret. Dried kiwis," says one of the ladies. "Have one." She gives each of us a dried kiwi. "All natural," she says. <br />
<br />
I take a couple bites. It's slightly sour, but within minutes I'm ready to jump out of my shoes. The rest of the trip over Catheral Pass was so easy, I wanted to do it again. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B7G8Is62avU/WXk1POHc9AI/AAAAAAAAMiI/aJzVWUUP2VM7_gGoL3kVLGAG6q9PtyhdQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4798.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B7G8Is62avU/WXk1POHc9AI/AAAAAAAAMiI/aJzVWUUP2VM7_gGoL3kVLGAG6q9PtyhdQCLcBGAs/s640/IMG_4798.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from Cathedral Pass. Cathedral Peak in foreground. Mount Conness in distance</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
We decide to take a lunch at Upper Cathedral lake. We cross a meadow to the shore over one of the many trampled footpaths that crisscross the fragile terrain. We find a nice soft spot in the dirt by the lake. I indulge in the usual menu of Justin almond butter extruded on a tortilla, trail mix and beef jerky. It all seems tasteless. Lunch is sort; we both feel the pull of Tuolumne.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mxCinaKlA4I/WXYcrfdD4FI/AAAAAAAAMhE/IRzBn7nEP6Ur9M_zvuFEeLT6mg7Zz-YbACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4810.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="1600" height="340" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mxCinaKlA4I/WXYcrfdD4FI/AAAAAAAAMhE/IRzBn7nEP6Ur9M_zvuFEeLT6mg7Zz-YbACLcBGAs/s640/IMG_4810.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Upper Cathedral Lake</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The switchbacks that descend from the Pass are dusty and beat to hell. We pass a group of hikers every of every few minutes. Families with infants, little kids, teenagers and grand parents. Octogenarians going slow. Young couples in difficult conversations. Brown skinned. Black skinned. Women wearing hijabs, Asians in groups of 20. We pass one solo on crutches. People stop us. They want to know if are hiking the JMT. It is annoying. I will never again pester PCT hiker in the San Gabriels.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S4oUKD78LyA/WXYbISn2duI/AAAAAAAAMgs/AKpv_qMcz-MYu6LfXIOhVnXqT0Zgg6ptACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4819.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="373" data-original-width="1600" height="250" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S4oUKD78LyA/WXYbISn2duI/AAAAAAAAMgs/AKpv_qMcz-MYu6LfXIOhVnXqT0Zgg6ptACLcBGAs/s640/IMG_4819.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tuolumne Meadows</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We reach Tuolumne in the mid afternoon. We skip the loop around the Meadow and work our way up the feeder trail to the campground. Since I have stayed here many times, I take point for the first time. We enter the campground from the west, and I promptly have us marching over the same stretch of road past the horse camp to the group camp. Duane masterfully conceals his impatience and redeems the situation with his iPhone. In less time than it takes to boil water with an alcohol stove at this elevation, we've claim a primo spot along the back perimeter of the backpackers camp.<br />
<br />
We dump our packs and walk over to the Lambert Dome bear vaults to claim our first resupply bucket. To my immense satisfaction. It's just as I left it. Back at camp we wash clothes in Duane's Bearikade then hang them out as decoration to dry on the surrounding branches. Duane decides to take a nap. I walk over to the store and purchase a new spork. Everything is falling in place.<br />
<br />
The day cools. The shadows lengthen. We walk over to the Grill for dinner. There's a line of smelly hikers. I eagerly order a double burger, fries and Diet Coke. We carry our food out to the picnic tables by the gas station. We take the last available seats at one one end of a table. At the other end, a very tanned fellow with a scruffy beard wearing a faded-red T with the sleeves cut off is perched on an adjoining table. He has the undivided of attention of a half-dozen hikers. He speaks with sweeping gestures and points with a long neck beer for emphasis. <br />
<br />
"Sure it was supposed to snow, but we <i>do </i>snow. Besides hiking that col is easier on snow than humping the talus. Anyway how bad can it snow? It's May, right?!"<br />
<br />
Several nod in understanding. <br />
<br />
"We got a late start. We don't reach Ediza Lake till mid afternoon. We had crossed the Snow Bowl and were up on Owen's Chute when, just like that, it was a total frickin' whiteout. We couldn't see 2 feet. No way we can make it back down. We were going to spend the night right there on Owen's Chute. We set the tent on some icy ground and crawled in our bags. Then the motherfucking wind came up. It was unbelievably 'frickin' cold. I've never been so cold. I thought for sure we were going to freeze to death. Man, it was a blast."<br />
<br />
Most take his story as good cheer. I have an instant dislike. It unsettles me. I can't connect the pieces. Why do they do it? Is life so empty that you must cheat death to really live? I don't like the reminder. I want wave it away, but what about the climbers; thru hikers or endurance athletes who live by the same standards. Is this guy warped or fuller person? I am not sure. <br />
<br />
After dinner, I hike atop Lambert Dome to watch the sun disappear in the west and think about hiking my hike because that's the one I can. <br />
<br />
Campsite: Toulumne Backpacker's Camp: 8,640 feet<br />
Elevation: +1,420, -2,050 <br />
Today: 11.5 mi <br />
Total trip: 29.4<br />
Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-27960057784607958552014-09-05T16:03:00.000-07:002018-07-15T14:38:29.988-07:00Day 2: Sunrise LakesI lost my spork. I've turned my pack inside out. It's nowhere. I recall what Ranger Jeanne said at the campfire talk about big wall climbing: "If you drop it; you don't need it." <br />
<br />
I scrape off a couple of twigs for chopsticks and ladle up my oatmeal. The process requires patience. About half of the oatmeal ends up on my clothes. Duane offers his spork. In the spirit of rugged independence, I decline. <br />
<br />
"You inspire me," says Duane.<br />
<br />
"How so?"<br />
<br />
"I feel a trail name coming on."<br />
<br />
"Should I be worried?"<br />
<br />
"Probably." <br />
<br />
He suggests three names: "Two-twig," "Bear-bait" and "Sporkless." I try to conceive of meeting Two-twig, Bear-bait and Sporkless. I see an image. They would be to wear underwear on their heads. I decline graciously.<br />
<br />
"Trust me," he replies, "you may not get a say in the matter."<br />
<br />
<hr><br />
Just as I'm cinching up my pack, Randy enters our camp. "Teeth all brushed? Hair combed? Lunch packed?" <br />
<br />
Last night we agreed to hike out with Randy and Sherry — at least for a mile or two. But, we won't be camping together tonight. They plan to stop along Sunrise Creek someplace after Forsyth junction — probably a dry camp. Duane and I will camp at Sunrise Lakes. <br />
<br />
We leave as a group with Duane in the lead. It's his natural state. I expect he'll walk point the entire hike. <br />
<br />
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We cross the creek with dry feet and walk the first mile up a gentle grade over open and rolling terrain. The sky is Sierra blue. The views are open. There's a soothing breeze and the day is warming. I chatter with Randy about music, math, mountains and things that, for no apparent reason, are miraculous. <br />
<br />
It's not long before Duane and I pull well ahead of Randy and Sherry. We stop to peel off a couple of layers and wait for them to catch up. After a few apologies for their slower pace, they encourage us to hike on ahead. We all promise to meet up at the Tuolumne Meadows Backpackers camp.<br />
<br />
The morning shadows are still long when we begin our descent to the Panorama Trail junction where we will, at last, be on the John Muir Trail. No sooner than we step foot on the actual JMT than Half Dome and its massive granodiorite neighbors open to our view. I stop and imagine them as towering bubbles of magma, floating up in the crust, secretly crystallizing into magnificent temples kilometers below before casting off the overlying terrane and claiming their rightful place among the grandest things of a later eon. A little further on, we hear the roar of Nevada Falls and pose for Butch Cassidy photo op by the bridge. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Descent to Panorama Trail Junction</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Half Dome approaching from the South.<br />
Mount Hoffman in the distance.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Butch Cassidy moment at Nevada Falls</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
From the bridge, it's but a mile to Little Yosemite Valley. Despite the lush sounding name, Little Yosemite is 4 acre dirt patch. In the center stands a Mayan-like ten-foot stone pyramid with steps leading up to pit toilette where hikers ascend to make sacrificial offerings. I contribute to the cause and head over to the river to filter some water. As I filter, a beautiful brunette with a lovely figure walks past me in a bikini. She smiles, and, to my astonishment, wades chest deep into the 50 degree water like it was a sauna. Unthinkingly I filter an extra liter so as to stick around a few minutes longer. I decide not to mention the woman in the bikini to Duane. After all, we are both happily married and ogling is one of those short-lived pleasures that is best not shared.<br />
<br />
We leave Little Yosemite knowing we're facing 10 miles and a 3,500 foot gain in the warm part of the day. It's our first work out of the hike. Much greater challenges lie ahead. Except for a brief lunch break by a muddy remnant of Sunrise Creek, we walk without stopping. The land is dry. The trees seemed strained. Another year of drought would be devastating. <br />
<br />
The day has gone hot and windless. We climb switch back after switch back. We stop for air and climb again. At last we reach the junction. A couple is resting there, feet up, shoes off, on a love-seat shaped boulder. He's a nice-looking, square-jawed cheery fellow pushing sixty. She is a freckly blond in a broad brimmed hat — probably 20 years his junior. The square-jawed fellow points at me. "Weren't you at White Wolf a couple nights ago? We sat together at dinner. You're the astronaut. Right?" <br />
<br />
Duane takes note and gives me a pat on the should. "I guess the secret is out."<br />
<br />
"And, I had a wonderful chat with your wife," says the blond. "She helps foster kids, right?'<br />
<br />
I remember them. He quizzed me about my work back a Space Systems. They live in Marin. He is a venture capitalist. She's a masseuse. She has climbed Kilimanjaro and hiked in Nepal. He goes to the gym. They seemed an utterly improbable and happy as high-school sweethearts on their honeymoon. She says they are on a day hike from Tenaya Lake to Clouds Rest. That's a 15 mile hike. It's getting late in the day. They have a sturdy uphill climb ahead. He's looks bonked. They don't seem to have much water or food. I doubt they have a flashlight. And yet, they don't appear to have a care in the world. I suppose it's possible they could be aliens. <br />
<br />
We hump it up the last incline to Forsyth Pass. We drop our packs, grab a snack and head over to the precipice for the view of Half Dome and the Valley below. The Valley is full of smoke. There must be a fire somewhere.<br />
<br />
"We're doing it," I say.<br />
<br />
"We sure as hell are," replies Duane.<br />
<br />
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We hang around long enough to stiffen up before walking the last mile to East Sunrise Lake. We find a campsite on the west shore with a view of the opposing ridge. We set up our camp. I take a plunge in the frigid water and cook dinner. Duane takes out his book.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset Lake campsite</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I climb a ridge behind our camp and stumble across a pheasant. The smoke from the distant fire sucks the blue out of the fading afternoon light which paints the mountains orange. I head back to camp. Crack my book, but can't concentrate on the text, so I strain at the zenith to catch a first glimpse of Vega and think about the days ahead.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Campsite: Sunrise Lake, 9,465<br />
Elevation: +5220, -2158<br />
Today: 14.6 mi.<br />
Total trip: 17.9<br />
<div><br />
</div>Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-64337080926800393032014-09-04T13:43:00.000-07:002017-10-08T11:30:23.420-07:00Day 1: Illilouette CreekWe pull up to the Curry Village Pavilion. Duane is standing there just like he said he would. Despite the plan, the sight of him is incongruous — like bumping into someone from work at the Louvre. Judging by his wave, he's damn glad to see us. I would be if I'd been on buses and trains for 2 days. <br />
<br />
We throw his pack in the hatch next to my gear and head over to Yosemite Village for our wilderness permit. We merge into the traffic crossing the Sentinel Bridge. The Merced is low. A harbinger of dry stretches ahead. <br />
<br />
We fall in line behind three cars waiting to enter the parking lot. A half-dozen others are already prowling the gravel for a space. I curse, not quite under my breathe. "Be patient," says Lilalee which of course produces a spike of impatience. It's short lived. I get lucky. A family of four step out front of us and we stalk them like predators to their car. Despite it's up and downs, sometimes life is good. <br />
<br />
We march through the unfiltered sunlight and swirling dust to the Village promenade. We pass hundreds of vacationers. Skipping kids. Harried parents. Older couples in matching outfits holding hands. Women in REI zip-legged pants and cape caps. Men in Hawaiian shirts and straw hats wearing long-lensed cameras that protruding from their stomachs. Aside from the occasional hiker clicking their sticks up the asphalt, most seem weary. Could be the altitude. Could be the building heat. Maybe they are exhausted by all the fun. I doubt it. <br />
<br />
We part ways at the Wilderness center. Lilalee heads over to the Ansel Adams Gallery to browse the gimchees. Duane and I push through the glass doors. We expect a line, but nothing like this. It wraps counter-clockwise clear around the giant relief map that is big as a king-sized bed. No one seems to notice the instructive displays on geologic history or the vertiginous photos of rock climbers. A taxidermied bear stands upright over a seated couple on their smart phones. A solo Asian man takes no notice of the mountain lion stalking a few feet away from his neck. A pine marten stares suspiciously at the crowd with lifeless marble eyes. I can make out Spanish, German, French, Italian and at least two East Asian languages. There must be 30 groups ahead of us in this line. There are just two rangers. <br />
<br />
It's a full ten minutes before the line advances. I hear the rangers patiently answer questions.<br />
<br />
"Where can I swim in a waterfall?"<br />
<br />
"How do I catch a bus up to Half Dome?"<br />
<br />
"Do I need a gun for the bears?"<br />
<br />
At this rate, we will be here six hours. I'm starting to feel homicidal. I slide to the floor in despair. Duane starts chitchatting with the attractive young couple just ahead of us. They are from Boston. He grew up here. Bagged a dozen peaks. Hiked the JMT. She is from Philly and never backpacked. This trip is his idea. <br />
<br />
"Can I ask a question?" says the young woman to Duane. "We're going to Half Dome. Are the bears dangerous?"<br />
<br />
"Not really," replies Duane. "But, don't get between them and food."<br />
<br />
"What about snakes?" she asks.<br />
<br />
Duane shakes his head. "Nope. Just watch your step," <br />
<br />
"I already told you," says her boy friend.<br />
<br />
I hope they are not engaged. <br />
<br />
A third ranger appears behind the counter. He's a dapper fellow in his thirties. Clean shaven. Starched, sharply-creased shirt and pants. I can't tell, but I bet his shoes are polished. A management candidate if there ever was one.<br />
<br />
He calls out to the crowd. "Anyone have a permit reservation?" I hold up ours. He waves us over. <br />
<br />
"Morning gents," he says. "Mono Meadow to Whitney Portal. Very good." He types our number into his terminal and a printer extrudes our permit. He uncaps a yellow highlighter, flips the permit to the regulations side, and highlights as he recites: "Camp at least 100 feet from a water source or a trail." We nod. "Store you smelly items in a bear canister. Bury your poop at least 6 inches deep and be at least 100 feet from water and campsites when you do it." We nod. "Pack out all toilette paper, do not bury or burn it. Wash at least 100 feet from water. Do not put soap in the lakes or the creeks. Got it?" We nod. "Any questions?"<br />
<br />
I'm tempted to ask if he irons his own shirts or sends to a laundry. I resist. <br />
<br />
"Very good," he says and hands me the permit. "Keep it with you at all times. Also you'll need this." He reaches under the counter and pulls out a 'Bear Incident Report Form' and a <a href="http://guywithbackpack.blogspot.com/p/defintions.html#WAG">WAG </a>bag. "Let us know if you have bear trouble and carry your poop out of the Whitney zone. Have a good hike."<br />
<br />
I start to salute, but Duane, suspecting the worst, elbows me along. Once outside I examine both sides of the WAG bag. "Includes waste bag with pre-loaded powder gelling and deodorizing element, includes outer zip-closed disposal bag..." I check Duane's reaction. "Are you taking this? I think I'll just hold it after Crabtree Meadow."<br />
<br />
"Sounds like a plan," he says. "There's a deluxe set up at the Portal."<br />
<br />
We are disposing the bags in the nearest bear-proof trash bins when Lilalee approaches. She holds a large shopping bag filled with tissue. She gives me a hung and a peck and says, "I just bought the most beautiful ceramic bowl. I can't wait for you to see it." <br />
<br />
"How much did it cost?"<br />
<br />
"You don't want to know," she answers with a smile. "Let's got eat." She turns and sashays toward the car. Duane gives me a knowing look. I shrug. We follow.<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Lilalee</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I pull into the parking lot at the Mono Meadow trail head. I hand Lilalee the keys. "I guess this is it."<br />
<br />
"You know I wish you weren't doing this," she says, "but I'm glad you are."<br />
<br />
We pop the hatch. I stretch. Duane rearranges some gear. We shoulder our packs on, grab our sticks and stand for a portrait. Lilalee gives a Duane a hug. I get a sweet kiss and warm embrace. "Take care of him," she says.<br />
<br />
"Don't worry," says Duane.<br />
<br />
"Drive careful," I say.<br />
<br />
We watch her drive away. It's an odd feeling. We've basically been left in the middle of nowhere.<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
Our first day out is hardly more than a stroll. Not even 4 miles to our campsite on Illilouette Creek. If you start at Mono Meadow, and plan to go over Donahue Pass, there's not much choice. The next option is well past Little Yosemite Valley up along Sunset creek near the junction to Clouds Rest. That route is a smidge over 12 miles with a 2K elevation gain with only 5 hours of daylight to find a dry camp. Might be a piece of cake for a PCTer, but no for the likes of us. We opted for the easy start down to Illilouette Creek.<br />
<br />
We follow the trail down through open woods on a path that circumvents Mono Meadow. The drought has taken it's toll here. The meadow is tawny and flowerless. We climb an easy ridge over to a dry tributary of the Illilouete. A hiker is strolling down the opposite slope. He is shirtless with a hairless muscular chest and bulging arms. His beard is full. His bushy hair is tied up in a red bandana. He glistens with sun screen and sings in full voice to an unrecognizable tune from his ear buds. We meet in the dry creek bed. <br />
<br />
"What a great day for a hike," he says. "I just came down from Merced Pass Lake. Did the loop to Buck Camp. So cool. It's like I've been living in my own movie. Where you guys going?"<br />
<br />
"We're camping at Illilouette Creek," I answer.<br />
<br />
"Cool. I saw some chicks there. Gotta go. How much further?"<br />
<br />
"Not far, just up to the trail head," I say encouragingly. <br />
<br />
"OK. Great! Thanks guys." he says obliviously. He plugs his buds back in and we watch him whistle off to the west.<br />
<br />
"That wasn't necessary," says Duane. <br />
<br />
I knew that was true the moment the words slipped out of my mouth.<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
We arrive at the Creek in less than two hours. It's a gorgeous spot. A long sandy beach straddles a gently rippling translucent creek. There's another tent a few hundred feet away. A man is wading in the creek. A woman sits on a cozy looking log. She waves. We wave back.<br />
<br />
We drop our packs and stake out a camp at the opposite end of the beach. I pitch my tent, roll out my gear and filter the evening's water. The creek is inviting. I slip on my camp shoes dig out my camp towel. I tell Duane I'm going to take a dip. I scramble over several bus-sized boulders to a private spot with blue-green water and pebbly bottom. I undress and wade in up to my ankles. It is freezing fucking cold. I jump forward. The cold is a body blow. The bottom is deeper than it looks. I rub rapidly at the sweaty parts, then scramble across the rocky bottom and crawl out in desperate haste onto the toasty slab of sun-warmed granite. <br />
<br />
I lounge until a breeze kicks up. I dress and climb a large boulder to survey the peaks and the cooling afternoon. To my astonishment a naked woman with a beautiful figure walks out of the trees and dives into the creek. She stands, plunges and swims around. It's been a long time since I've seen a naked 25-year old. The sight of her brings back a flood of lost memories from the time before Lilalee. Passionate liaisons, painful partings, fond regrets. They play out like an old movie in my minds eye. The young woman sees me standing there. She shoots the finger and dashes out of the creek and into the trees. I add another small regret and unintended consequence to that reel of memory. <br />
<br />
I find Duane perched on a large boulder with the two campers from the far end of the beach. Their names are Randy and Sherry. They are also hiking the JMT. They don't have trail names. <br />
<br />
Randy retired early on his high-tech earnings. Sherry is a hospitality executive. Randy recounts a witty misadventure on a Costa Rican zip line. Sherry corrects errors of fact and embellishment. They are lively and fun. I lay back, listen and watch the afternoon sky fade to orange and pink. <br />
<br />
"Enough about us," says Randy. "Not that I'm all that interested, but what about you?"<br />
<br />
Duane introduces us. "We're buddies from work," he says. "Space Systems Labs."<br />
<br />
"We had common cause trying to survive a mendacious manager," I add. <br />
<br />
"Know them well," says Randy. <br />
<br />
"Wait," says Sherry to Duane. "I know you. I read your facebook postings. You have great gear advice. I learned a lot."<br />
<br />
"Really?" says Duane. <br />
<br />
"I'm sure," says Sherry. <br />
<br />
"Wow! Must be fate," says Randy. "Maybe I should start believing in fate."<br />
<br />
"One thing I didn't understand," adds Sherry. "You were really careful about every ounce. How come you carry two pads?"<br />
<br />
"Easy," says Duane. "One's to sleep on; the other provides rigidly to my pack."<br />
<br />
Randy sits up. "By golly. I think we have our first trail name.... Two Pad." <br />
<br />
"That's fabulous." I say with resounding endorsement.<br />
<br />
"I love it," adds Sherry.<br />
<br />
"It's not sticking," says Duane.<br />
<br />
We all smile because we all know it will. <br />
<br />
It's only the first day. Hard to believe, I'm finally on the JMT. The adventure is just begun.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Campsite: Illilouette Creek, 6373<br />
Elevation: +500, -1,330 <br />
Today miles: 3.3<br />
Total trip miles: 3.3</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-48719937411192527542014-09-03T12:57:00.000-07:002017-12-03T17:40:56.636-08:00The last dayThe last of the go-getters packed off a half-hour ago. Lilalee is still in our cabin. I'm on the veranda of the White Wolf Lodge warming up my hands with a steaming coffee. A Stellar Jay is prancing about on the banister, checking me out, hoping for a crumb. The air is tranquil. The sky still laced with pink. I close my eyes, take in some mountain air and absorb the moment. <br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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?"<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
"You must be a regular," I say meaning to be polite, but not intending to start a conversation. <br />
<br />
"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." <br />
<br />
"Got to be an early start."<br />
<br />
"Early to bed; early to rise." <br />
<br />
"You must miss the night life."<br />
<br />
"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." <br />
<br />
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?"<br />
<br />
I explain that I'm retired, that I'm here with my wife and that we're from Los Angeles. <br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
"Is it nice being up here all the time? Ever get in a little hiking?"<br />
<br />
"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. <br />
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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
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." <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
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. <br />
<br />
"I just saw a bear. In the meadow. Not a hundred feet away." <br />
<br />
"That's pretty close," says Tanya with a nod and discerning frown.<br />
<br />
"He's fearless," says Lilalee to Tanya and turns to me. "I told her you leave for the JMT tomorrow."<br />
<br />
"I'm always a bit jittery before a big hike," says Tanya.<br />
<br />
I shrug, but the suggestion releases a pulse of anxiety.<br />
<br />
"Next year she's hiking the PCT with her daughter," says Lilalee.<br />
<br />
"Intrepid," I say. "No doubt the old man can't keep up."<br />
<br />
"No doubt," replies Tanya with a shrug. "He died in February." <br />
<br />
There's an awkward silence. Lilalee shakes her head to assure me that I'm no master of tact. I apologize. <br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
"I adore this woman," says Lilalee putting a hand on Tanya's arm.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
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." <br />
<br />
"You're meeting him for the first time?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"You're being nosy," says Lilalee.<br />
<br />
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?"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-muJctX6WwoA/WUqy4owrgdI/AAAAAAAAMOE/XQ3I_HkMiCMXrbjkuOGaQV7wTVd36X5fQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4659.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-muJctX6WwoA/WUqy4owrgdI/AAAAAAAAMOE/XQ3I_HkMiCMXrbjkuOGaQV7wTVd36X5fQCLcBGAs/s640/IMG_4659.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">En route to Lukens Lake </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-14743689042769719392014-08-30T08:24:00.000-07:002017-06-20T17:35:47.152-07:00The quill hatThe sun has dipped behind the peaks west of Bishop, and a fitful breeze has finally cooled the day. Clots of vacationers are puttering about Main Street headed to the restaurants and bars. I head over to the lake in City Park, sprawl out on the grass and watch the ducks ruffle the early evening oranges and pinks that reflect off its surface. It's tranquil. I can think in peace. <br />
<br />
It's our second night here. We're staying at the Trees Motel — no doubt named for the two spindly Cottonwoods on the front lawn whose trunks are scarred with initials. It's the holiday. We were lucky to find a any place. The Trees is perfect for me, but it is not Lilalee's cup of tea. I was relieved that our room didn't reek of stale cigarettes and lavender air fresher. The best thing is that the air conditioning actually keeps us cool. I've grateful she seems comfortable here. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iR7ITdJwIhg/WUmt1qviwOI/AAAAAAAAMNk/c3UVM4ZQh7oAnqPt9Hrz2y_G5QxneoSAACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_3823.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iR7ITdJwIhg/WUmt1qviwOI/AAAAAAAAMNk/c3UVM4ZQh7oAnqPt9Hrz2y_G5QxneoSAACLcBGAs/s200/IMG_3823.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bristle Cone Pine</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We took the extra day in Bishop because Lilalee hadn't seen the Bristlecones. She was delighted by the drive up. She marveled at the trees. It hailed a bit. We saw a rainbow. It was a fine day, but I definitely felt the altitude. Good thing we're drive up to Mammoth tomorrow and I have five more days to acclimatize. <br />
<br />
After getting back to Bishop, we cleaned up and grabbed dinner at Las Palmas. I ate too much: albodigas, the double-chicken-mole-enchilada platter,3 bowls of chips and two Bohemias. The second one was free. Lilalee charmed the owner and he comped me a second. I got pretty buzzed. <br />
<br />
When we got back to the room, Lila sprawled out with all the pillows and one of her 19th century novels. I dumped my pack wanting to make another check against my equipment list while we are in Bishop; replacement is a lot cheaper here than Mammoth. But I was too loopy and miserably full to concentrate. I kept going over the same items. Meanwhile, Lilalee wanted to share some passages from her book. We used to read to one another all the time.<br />
<br />
"Tell me who this reminds you of." She cleared her throat and affected a marmmish pitch. "He's like the rooster that thinks the sun comes up because he wants to hear him crow."<br />
<br />
"Me?"<br />
<br />
"Not close," she replied. "But here's the one that does... 'College mostly makes people like bladders — just good for nothing but to hold the stuff as is poured into them.' Fits, right?" She laughed. <br />
<br />
Of course I agreed, but my mind was on stretching my legs. Of course she didn't mind. She almost never does. That's how I ended up here with the ducks.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-g1wSPnuDkC8/WUQglfL2VuI/AAAAAAAAMMc/DvpmA_q_kI8xRIsiQ3koSp7X36l_u5fGQCLcBGAs/s1600/DSC02231.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="967" data-original-width="1600" height="241" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-g1wSPnuDkC8/WUQglfL2VuI/AAAAAAAAMMc/DvpmA_q_kI8xRIsiQ3koSp7X36l_u5fGQCLcBGAs/s400/DSC02231.JPG" width="500" /></a></div><br />
A trio of hikers wander over. They sit not 50 feet away. A woman and two guys in their twenties. Probably freshly bathed thru hikers taking a zero. Stained clothes, baseball caps, trail runners, deeply tanned skinny-unshaven bodies, smooth muscular arms and legs. They crack open a six pack and bag of chips. One lights a joint. They laugh and lean into each other in fellowship. They must be southbound PCTers. You don't see them every day, but the Northbound PCT herd is long gone and JMTers seldom land in Bishop. <br />
<br />
They evoke thoughts of lost friends and real places that now only exist in memory. I'm tempted to wander over and hear their stories. Maybe recapture the old feelings. One of the guys catches my glance and holds up a can in offering. I decline. The gap between us far exceeds 50 feet. I take sad pride in knowing twenty is long gone. Where they have hope, I have advice. Where they have plans, I have cautionary tales. I remember doing just as well without. As much as I'd like, it's foolish to reach back in time. So I gather myself with a grunt and head towards the crowds parading up Main street. As I leave the woman waves and the guys signal. It is sweet.<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
A holiday spirit is in the air. The sidewalks are crowed with circles of drinkers and folds of waiting families and friends that overflow from the restaurants. I pass a busking couple. Lesbians I figure. One sings beautifully. The other plays a fine fiddle. I drop a five in their hat, but don't hang around. I pass an older couple dressed in matching peach-colored out fits. They hurry along as best they can. Further up, five teenage boys are seated on a stone planter secretly sharing a cigarette and eyeing every girl that passes. A block later a group of teenage girls are gathered outside the movie theater.<br />
<br />
At the south end of town, I turn up a side street and come across a bar called the Mountain Rambler. Based on the name, I decide to check it out. Most of the clientele seem to be locals. The food looks tasty. The tables are bright with fresh vanish. The servers are rushing about. A band is setting up on a low stage by the far wall. I take a seat at the end of a long table near some old timers. A dark-haired woman with a lip piercing and tattooed arms puts a cold pitcher between them and comes my way. <br />
<br />
"If you stay for the music, there's a twelve dollar cover," she says. "No exceptions."<br />
<br />
"Is it OK to just have a beer?" <br />
<br />
"The band starts in an hour. What kind?"<br />
<br />
I order a glass of pale ale even though I don't really want a beer or like being in bars — especially alone. I don't suppose most people do. I try not to fidget while I wait, but I can't help but overhear the men near me. <br />
<br />
A heavy fellow with a deeply-weathered face and a bushy mustache is talking. "I was sixteen first time I scramble up Mount Humphreys. Did it with Bobby Hammond. Remember Bobby?"<br />
<br />
"He was crazy," says the wiry, bald-headed fellow across the table. "We did some wild shit. Remember that time we caught that porcupine at North Lake. We were on our way to Darwin Bench. We figured it was lost; so, Bobby decided we should take it with us to Piute Lake. We rolled it up in a canvass tarp, tied the ends and carried it up suspended by a rope. No way we were carrying that thing in our arms. Damn it was mad." <br />
<br />
The man sitting closest to me grabs their pitcher and says, "You fellas were pretty clever," as he refills the teller's mug.<br />
<br />
"Don't know why we did it," continues the wiry fellow. "We just did. Anyways, we dropped the little critter off and ran like crazy, but not before he shot a couple quills in my pack. Should have kept them." <br />
<br />
"Tell the rest of it," says the man with the bushy mustache.<br />
<br />
"Anyways," continues the wiry fellow, "it snowed like sonofabitch while we were there. Froze our tails off. We hardly left the tent. A couple days later we came out and wanted to celebrate. We went to Rusty's and bought ourselves burgers and shakes. We were chowing down at the bar when this guy walks in with porcupine quills in his hat." The wiry guy starts to chuckling to himself and takes a few chugs from his mug.<br />
<br />
"You're not supposed to be laughing at your own stories," taunts the mustachioed fellow. "Get to the punch-line." <br />
<br />
"I'm getting there," says the wiry man. "So happens the bartender was from around these parts. He knew this guy with the quill hat and said, 'where'd you get those quills?' The guy with the quill hat answered, 'We found a porcupine up at Piute Lake.' "Piute Lake?!" said the bartender.' 'That's right." replied the fellow with the quill hat. 'What the hell was it doing up there?" asked the bar tender. "Heck if I know," said Mr. Quill Hat. The bar tender thought about that a bit and said, 'Must been some dog carried him up.' 'Must have been,' replied Mr. Quill Hat.' You know what? We just sat there and didn't say a word." <br />
<br />
All three men then nodded and raised their mugs in a silent toast. <br />
<br />
"I can only hope all those kids hiking up there are smarter than we were," says the mustachioed man.<br />
<br />
"I doubt it," says the guy closest to me. <br />
<br />
For the most part those fellows didn't say much more until I left my unfinished beer on top a $10 bill. I thought the dark-haired server could use a little cheering up. As I walked out I heard the wiry fellow say, "Did you hear the Gene gone and had his knees replaced?"<br />
<br />
<hr><br />
The lights are on when I get back to the Trees Motel. Lila is snuffling peacefully with the book lying flat on her breast. I make a special note to fix this image in my mind in the off-chance it's needed in the future.Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-6518003653158622992014-08-13T07:04:00.000-07:002017-06-13T19:46:57.419-07:00The die is cast<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pRcuxeYOfYM/WT8QIlMTYPI/AAAAAAAAMLY/HIFzakkC-5EA3zLlXBROEFg5ASG1HUeogCLcB/s1600/IMG_4639%2B-%2BCopy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1514" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pRcuxeYOfYM/WT8QIlMTYPI/AAAAAAAAMLY/HIFzakkC-5EA3zLlXBROEFg5ASG1HUeogCLcB/s320/IMG_4639%2B-%2BCopy.JPG" width="302" /></a></div>I count out loud each of the food items for each resupply bucket. Duane listens closely double checking for my errors. The hike is finally happening. It's a bit unreal, as if my fate was been surrendered to another's will. Maybe this is what people mean by an out-of-body experience. <br />
<br />
"You double counted that one," says Duane pointing to the freeze-bag, oatmeal-raisin breakfasts. "It belongs in the <a href="https://guywithbackpack.blogspot.com/p/defintions.html#VVR">VVR</a> bucket."<br />
<br />
We have planned four resupplies: Tuolumne Meadows, Red's Meadow, VVR and the Mt Williamson Motel. Each bucket has the supplies needed to get us to the next resupply. The longest stretch is six-and-a-half days. The shortest is four days. Altogether the hike will take twenty-three days: twenty-one hike days and two zero days. We step off the trail head on September 4th, three weeks from now. We walk out to Whitney Portal on September 26th. And in just two weeks, I leave for the eastern Sierra to start acclimatizing. Things are happening fast.<br />
<br />
Our logistics are complicated. Duane has to work. He'll be taking a train to Fresno and a bus to Yosemite. Since I have to acclimatize, my plan is byzantine. I'll take the <a href="https://www.estransit.com/">ESTA</a> from Lancaster to Bishop and stay at the hostel. Next day I'll take the ESTA to Mammoth Lakes and stay at the Motel 6 for two nights. From there I'll take <a href="http://yarts.com/">YARTS </a>to Tuolumne Meadows. I'll buy a wilderness permit for a hike to Ten Lakes, but I'll only use it to be street legal at the Backpackers camp. The next day, I'll take YARTS again. This time to White Wolf. I stay there for two nights and try to steal a shower. The last night before the hike, I'll take the YARTS to the Crane Flat Campground. That morning, I'll catch YARTS one more time down to Yosemite Valley. At 10:30, I'll meet Duane in front of the Wilderness Center. We'll pick up our JMT permit. For the last leg we'll catch the 1:30 Glacier Point Tour Bus up to the Mono Meadow Trail Head. From there, our next stop is Mount Whitney. The only hitch is getting to Lancaster. <br />
<br />
All told (with my senior discount) that's about $70 for the bus, $20 for campgrounds and $200 in hotels. Acclimatizing is expensive. It just better work.<br />
<br />
I double check Duane as he counts his food into the buckets. After a last go through, we label and seal each one. Tomorrow I mail the VVR bucket. It won't be any use to us if it gets there late. My friend Ann is has agreed to drop off the other buckets. She leaves for Tuolumne Meadows next week.<br />
<br />
"That's it," says Duane. "I'm jazzed."<br />
<br />
"Except for the hike, I guess were done," I say meaning to joke but sounding dire. <br />
<br />
He taken aback. "Something wrong?" <br />
<br />
"Not really. But... what if there's a snag. What if you twist an ankle or I get sick again?"<br />
<br />
"I'm not twisting an ankle and we have plenty of time to acclimatize," he says reassuringly. "Besides, we don't hit Donahue Pass until day five." <br />
<br />
"But what if....Shouldn't we make an agreement?"<br />
<br />
Duane nods. "What do you have in mind?"<br />
<br />
"If one of us has to bail, the other gets to continue."<br />
<br />
"OK," he says reflectively, "But we have to talk first. We have to agree."<br />
<br />
We shake on it. A load lifts. I don't want to screw up anyone's hike and I sure don't want anyone screwing up mine. <br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
Over dinner, I tell Lilalee the plan. "So if you could drop me off in Lancaster and then pick us up when we're done, that's all we need.<br />
<br />
There's a long silence while she stares at her plate. A flush comes up from her neck to her cheeks like a rising fury. <br />
<br />
"I know this sounds complicated. I'm sure it will work."<br />
<br />
"Are you serious?" she replies, each word rising with intensity. Before I can utter a thing she jumps in with a sharp rebuke. "You are planning to be gone for a MONTH!"<br />
<br />
"This shouldn't be a surprise," I reply self-righteously knowing full well it's going to make things worse and not caring. <br />
<br />
She pushes out from the table and stands over me. "What about Labor Day weekend? Weren't we supposed to do something?"<br />
<br />
"I don't know. Call the Swonks. Siobahn always has something going."<br />
<br />
Lilalee glares at me with unmistakable disgust. "You're pathetic." She carries her plate to the sink and on her way out the door says "I'm going for a drive."<br />
<br />
<hr><br />
I clean up feeling horribly mistreated and not willing to understand the turn of events. A heavy hour passes. I have no stomach for our fights. I put the 2nd movement of Beethoven's 7th on the stereo and play it loud. Under the circumstances it's the most melancholy music I can think of. I can't shake the feeling of injustice. After these many months of planning, after years of yearning, this was the one thing above all others, I held for retirement. <br />
<br />
Until this moment I have been blind to the fullness of the divide it has created. Now it seems I've made a catastrophic blunder. Lilalee is my partner, but she has not been a part of my plan. Not that she could have been, but that changes nothing. <br />
<br />
It's evening. I pace the house. Our book shelves are lined with signs of her generous nature. There are a dozen photos of our friend's children. They all love her. My favorite is a vacation photo of Lilalee with her arms around our god daughters when they were girls. It make me happy just to see. And on the chest of drawers, which was the first piece of furniture we bought together, there's a framed photo of us when we were young standing under a redwood. I look ridiculous with this stupid uncontrollable smile. <br />
<br />
And yet I know that once I am on the trail, I will have no regrets, no ill feeling. How is that possible? What is the measure of selfishness or self-absorption needed to to feel that kind of freedom? Or is it indifference? The very thought is unsettling. <br />
<br />
I hear her car in the drive. I go to meet her at the door. To my relief and joy she embraces me.<br />
<br />
"I've been thinking," she says. "What if I go with you?"<br />
<br />
"On the hike?"<br />
<br />
"No stupid. On the way to the hike. Forget all that complicated business with the buses. I'll drive you. We'll get a nice place in Mammoth. Spend a couple days together. Then maybe we can get one of the White Wolf Cabins. I love those. What do you say?" <br />
<br />
"There may not be any rooms."<br />
<br />
"You know me. I'll find the places. I'll find nice places. We'll have fun."<br />
<br />
"It could be expensive."<br />
<br />
"Are we going to start up again?" She replies with a playful threat. But it could go either way.<br />
<br />
"So you'll drop Duane and me off at the trail head and pick us up at Lone Pine?"<br />
<br />
"Whatever you want."<br />
<br />
I don't know much, but I know I don't deserve my luck.<br />
<br />
<hr /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>The Plan</i></span><br />
<iframe height="480" src="https://www.google.com/maps/d/embed?mid=12PBDHLZNFN8MDLXBl6rO4Fg_VYY" width="550"></iframe><br />
</div><br />
Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-56754767892980385742014-07-23T05:11:00.000-07:002017-06-05T06:18:59.796-07:00Change of PlansI dump the contents of my bear canister on the picnic table: 1 ersatz spaghetti dinner, 1 beef-onion-couscous concoction, 3 oatmeal-raisin bags, 5 Picky Bars, 3 Pro Bars, 1 Kind Bar, 1 Justin Almond Maple, 2 Justin Almond Chocolate, 4 tortillas, 1 half bag of Beef Jerky, 1 half bag of Trail Mix, and just 2 instant Folgers. That's it. The math is clear. Unless I hump 16 miles tomorrow, I'd be eating air before I could get back from any hike to Matterhorn Canyon. <br />
<br />
A fellow decked out in camo pants and a 'god-bless-america' hat wanders over with a steaming cup. I recognize him. He was standing by this lopsided MSR tube tent and saluted us when we stumbled into camp. With a cheery smile he says, "You've got quite a spread there." <br />
<br />
"Hope you don't mind if I'm not sharing."<br />
<br />
"Nah," he says. "Just felt like being neighborly. I'm the fellow with the lopsided tent. Feel like some company? I'm tired of talking to myself."<br />
<br />
I gesture at the bench across the table. "Talk away," I probably sound surly, but don't mean to be.<br />
<br />
He takes no notice. "Some place, this Yosemite. Every been here before?"<br />
<br />
"Many times."<br />
<br />
"My first. I stayed at May Lake last night. Snow Creek before that."<br />
<br />
"Where you headed?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"Twin Lakes. Maybe." He takes a sip. "No place I have to be." <br />
<br />
"That good or bad?"<br />
<br />
"I don't know. Both, I guess." He makes a grand gesture. "I'm here. That's good. Other than that, I got laid off, which is cool because the contractor was an idiot and we were working in this shit hole called Naco while my kids are in Tucson. Then I met this cute girl who told me she was going to Yosemite and wanted to hike to Canada. She said lot of girls do it. Then I get an email from a service buddy who says come to Twin Lakes and go fishing. So since my kids are with the Ex for the summer, I figure why not? Here I am." <br />
<br />
"Why not?" I reply. I can't resist people who seem to be a magnet for calamity. I wouldn't ask the guy to move in, but I feel for him and want to know more. I want to hear about his kids, how he met his wife, what he did in the service, where he grew up... It takes my mind of my pathetic little problems. <br />
<br />
"What's with your hiking partner?" he asks. "The guy looked wounded."<br />
<br />
"He's fine. Actually, he's not my partner. We just met on the trail." I leave it at that. I'm not up for the whole episode. Frankly, I'd rather forget.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-w5YsdcUQYI0/WTLdrsAomYI/AAAAAAAAMGs/H8QEiI9--HoKvkCZp1g_OEcCmSLGwpZtACLcB/s1600/IMG_4552.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="861" data-original-width="1600" height="215" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-w5YsdcUQYI0/WTLdrsAomYI/AAAAAAAAMGs/H8QEiI9--HoKvkCZp1g_OEcCmSLGwpZtACLcB/s400/IMG_4552.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Return Creek</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I wake up and Bob is the first thing on my mind. I figure I'll just make sure he's OK before heading out. You can't just walk away when you're in the middle of nowhere and someone's in trouble.<br />
<br />
I nose over to get a view of his campsite. He's sacked out in his bivvy. I decide to have my coffee and oatmeal then try again. I bang around to signal the start of the day. The sunlight peaks over the ridge that runs up to Shepherd Crest and through the trees. It's warms enough to stash the coat and gloves. I take another peak at Bob. Nada. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FNbB9isznGw/WTBGHLiwk4I/AAAAAAAAMFg/Ecm5BvJ03E86mheCMbXFN049ALUK-IpSgCLcB/s1600/IMG_4558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FNbB9isznGw/WTBGHLiwk4I/AAAAAAAAMFg/Ecm5BvJ03E86mheCMbXFN049ALUK-IpSgCLcB/s320/IMG_4558.JPG" width="320" /></a>I strike camp. While I'm forcing my NeoAir into its compression sack, three families with kids swarm down the trail from McCabe junction. They line up at the edge of Return Creek and cross with a lot of commotion. It sounds like a birthday party. <br />
<br />
That settles it. Bob's getting up or I'm leaving. I find him stretched out flat on his back. Only his nose pokes out of the bivvy. I repeat his name to wake him.<br />
<br />
He looks up. "I couldn't sleep. I just want to stay here for now."<br />
<br />
"Is that a good idea?"<br />
<br />
He sits up and lays down and covers his eyes. "I don't feel right."<br />
<br />
"How about some coffee?"<br />
<br />
"I don't think so," he whispers.<br />
<br />
I break cook set out of my pack and boil up some water. I don't know if it's a good idea, but I throw two packets of Folgers in the cup.<br />
<br />
He takes a few sips, then a few more sips and says, "I think this helps. I'm gonna pee." He climbs out of the bag, promptly loses his balance, straightens up and staggers off into the trees. "Not good," I think. <br />
When he returns he sits on the log and cradles his head. I ask how he's feeling.<br />
<br />
"I might have some altitude sickness," he replies.<br />
<br />
He finishes the coffee. I size up the situation. We're only at 8.5K, but he has a history. I can't say for sure, but Bob may be in trouble.<br />
<br />
"Are you a Trekkie?" asks Bob. "Remember the Rigelian fever episode where Kirk and McCoy beamed down to get ryetalyn? Some people say it was just a pun, but I think it really refers to Rubinite which can only be obtained from meteorites." <br />
<br />
"I think you need to hike down." <br />
<br />
He stares at me. Tears come into his eyes. "Do you think so?"<br />
<br />
"I do," I say. "I'll walk with you." He starts to weep. "Go on," I say. "Get packed." <br />
<br />
He stands, wipes his face and thanks me. Then thanks me again. Once I see he's started to strike his gear, I go back and grab a couple of Picky Bars. We've got a 500-foot climb and 8 miles to Glen Aulin. He'll need to eat something. I return with the Bars to find him sitting on a rock.<br />
<br />
"I used to live in LA," he says. "I was testing circuit boards. That's what I did in the service. Then I just left. I wanted to live in the mountains."<br />
<br />
"Eat these. You'll need some food for the hike."<br />
<br />
"Not bad," he says. "I have to get some. What are they?"<br />
<br />
It takes the better part of an hour before we hike out. We start up the slope. He is slow; less than a mile-an-hour slow. He stops every hundred yards or so. "Keep going. Keep going. Go Slow." I say. "Go slow." Half-way up the ridge to McCabe junction he has to sit down.<br />
<br />
"I can't go on," he says.<br />
<br />
"Yes you can," I say. "I'll get you another Picky Bar." This time I hand him a Smooth Caffeinator. And then I grab two more packets of Folgers. I stir the packets in cold water until they dissolve.<br />
<br />
"Did I tell you that Jerry Garcia's grandchildren went to my school? Jerry came and played for the kids. Do you know the Little White Duck?" He sings it. "There's a little white duck sitting in the water, a little white duck doing what he oughter..."<br />
<br />
"Drink this."<br />
<br />
"What is it?"<br />
<br />
"Espresso. You'll feel like new."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vz799d6fRS8/WTBGENDBXrI/AAAAAAAAMFc/SsMbJYf-jckE_1_l589AS1Dc3DYJ374pACLcB/s1600/IMG_4562.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="883" data-original-width="1600" height="352" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vz799d6fRS8/WTBGENDBXrI/AAAAAAAAMFc/SsMbJYf-jckE_1_l589AS1Dc3DYJ374pACLcB/s640/IMG_4562.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
It takes us ninety minutes to traverse the saddle. One mile down; seven to go. As we loose elevation, Bob needs fewer breaks, but every 5 minutes he'll stop so I must still must remind him "Keep going. Keep going. Go slow."<br />
<br />
Half way across the long meadow, we stop under a tree for lunch. I make us some tortilla and Justin Almond Butter wraps. We much on trail mix and jerky. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c-8flU_KoDw/WTBGIKhsQUI/AAAAAAAAMFk/9UB9JLyQfms-vBFLZmCJf3IIswcV5u9UQCLcB/s1600/IMG_4563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="804" data-original-width="1600" height="160" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c-8flU_KoDw/WTBGIKhsQUI/AAAAAAAAMFk/9UB9JLyQfms-vBFLZmCJf3IIswcV5u9UQCLcB/s320/IMG_4563.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Bob points up the ridge to the west and mutters, "Smoke." I check. Sure enough, there's a fire on the mountain. The good news: his brain seem connected to reality. Ten tons lift from my shoulders. So long as we don't get caught in a massive wildfire, the worst is over.<br />
<br />
The remainder of the hike is a long, slow, monotonous trudge at an erratic pace. Two strides. Stop. Three strides. Stop. Two strides stop. <i>Hikus interruptus</i>. And my voice becomes hoarse from repeating, "keep going, keep going, go slow." I grow weary and oblivious to the surroundings. I am focused on the dirt strip and hang on to one idea. This day will eventually be over. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-27_ANI4D08g/WTBGQssYiYI/AAAAAAAAMFw/awIWHd0LlOge69rP6-gmYtjVIsxzb8TTQCLcB/s1600/IMG_4567.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-27_ANI4D08g/WTBGQssYiYI/AAAAAAAAMFw/awIWHd0LlOge69rP6-gmYtjVIsxzb8TTQCLcB/s320/IMG_4567.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>As we approach the southern perimeter of the long meadow, a fire crew breaks through the brush. They make a fine sight crossing the meadow in a high-stepping single file. It's as if they are whistling in unison. We rendezvous. They are head for Tuolumne tonight. Hot food and hot showers. There's no holding them back. They depart with cheery salutations and are gone from view in 10 minutes.<br />
<br />
By the time we plod into Glen Aulin, there's a chill in the air — it's taken nearly 10 hours to hike 8 miles. The atmosphere here is festive. A fire is smoking in the fire pit. Guests are drinking from long stemmed glasses. A fellow with a Santa Claus beard is picking out a Cole Porter tune on a banjo. A woman 30 years his junior is singing with conviction from a lyric sheet. <br />
<br />
We pass through through main camp to the backpackers camp like a pair of fugitives. I find a spot for Bob. Who should be in the next campsite, but my old buddy Nancy — from two days ago at the Tuolumne Meadows backpackers camp. She greets me if I just returned from a long absence. "How wonderful! Great to see you. I thought you were going to Swiss Lake."<br />
<br />
"Matterhorn Canyon," I correct wearily. "I was just helping Bob here."<br />
<br />
"Oh my!" says Nancy. "Can I help?"<br />
<br />
Without the bother of any introductions, Nancy assumes full responsibility for Bob's fate. She helps him pick a spot for his bivvy, secures a hot meal for him in the Camp office, and arranges a pony ride back to Tuolumne tomorrow on the afternoon pack train. I make no objection. Would you if someone offered to carry your 80-pound pack?<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
"So tell me," I ask the fellow in the "God Bless America" cap, "What's with your tent. Never seen one quite like that before."<br />
<br />
"I imagine you hadn't," he says and rubs his cup between his palms as if to warm it up. "It wasn't always like that." He takes off his cap and swipes at a full head of hair. "Here's the deal. I was getting my Wilderness permit down in Yosemite Village. The Ranger says, 'There's a smart bear up there at Snow Creek. He's been rolling the canisters into the creek and pushing them down stream until they fall off the edge and bust open down on the rocks. He's been eating good.'" <br />
<br />
"So I figure I'm not losing my food to some dumb bear. When I set up camp at Snow Creek, I put my canister as far from the creek as possible. And just to be sure, I pile my cook gear on top of the canister. That way, if the bear fiddles with the canister, there will be a crash so I'll wake up and chase the sucker off. I went to sleep feeling pretty good about myself."<br />
<br />
"Now, it's the middle of the night. I'm sound asleep. There's a big crash. I sit up wide awake. Next thing I know, my tent punches down right where my head was. All that clatter had scared the bear OK, but he ran off right over my tent. See I didn't think that there was only one escape route. That son-of-bastard would have flattened my head. As it is, I now have a tent with a big dent."<br />
<br />
"Better than a head with a big dent."<br />
<br />
"You can say that again," he says. "I can see the headlines back home. <i>Bear flattens local man's head</i>," "But he didn't; did he? Shit. I think I'm going to like it out here in the wilderness. Maybe I'll even meet some girls."<br />
<br />
I'm happy for Mr. God-Bless. As for me, it's time to head home and start preparing for the real hike.<br />
<br />
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Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-82653111153371033502014-07-22T19:15:00.000-07:002017-10-08T11:45:26.415-07:00Walking away from it allI awake to hushed voices, ripping zippers and the hiss of nylon being stuffed and folded. The sky has brightened out. The woods are echoing with clucks of chipmunks and calls from Stellar Jays. It's trail day.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
"Done it. Twice." responds another. "Ever do Red Peak from Washburn Lake?"<br />
<br />
"Not yet."<br />
<br />
"Dude! Gotta do."<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
<hr />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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pIaqbGsuj8M/WQ5tMo6IDuI/AAAAAAAALy0/nkVTxYijsjUhA2UJZLiHxwJBWU3MtjaCACLcB/s1600/IMG_4507.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pIaqbGsuj8M/WQ5tMo6IDuI/AAAAAAAALy0/nkVTxYijsjUhA2UJZLiHxwJBWU3MtjaCACLcB/s400/IMG_4507.JPG" width="580" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cathedral and Unicorn peaks off to the south</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The Tuolumne River converges with the trail at the northwest corner of the big meadow. I stop for a parting view of Cathedral Peak. Wisps clouds streak past overhead. I would welcome some overcast. It's humid and I'm already sweating. It's been four days. I'm grungy. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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? <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WSrGR9LuMv4/WR2_EOd0ywI/AAAAAAAAL50/fbgiWeotq7sbxU_OyLWCrykgcAVZF166gCLcB/s1600/IMG_4509.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WSrGR9LuMv4/WR2_EOd0ywI/AAAAAAAAL50/fbgiWeotq7sbxU_OyLWCrykgcAVZF166gCLcB/s320/IMG_4509.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>I dig out my camp towel and undress. I place my glasses carefully on the boulder and walk in slowly, which is painful and pointless. I plunge. The cold knocks the breath out of me. It is much too cold for swimming or splashing about. I dunk a few times to rub off the grime before I reach my shivering limit and walk out onto the rock into the gloriously warm sun. <br />
<br />
There's a horse whistle. "Whooo-hoo! Whooo-hoo!"<br />
<br />
Three women are standing on an outcrop across the river. They are waving big and friendly. "Whooo-hoo! Whooo-hoo!" <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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?" <br />
<br />
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?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, sir," she says. "I'm a commissioned law officer." <br />
<br />
"That was a stupid. I apologize."<br />
<br />
"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." <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TLSg_TbKd10/WR2790JMr-I/AAAAAAAAL5o/F4FVvCGXnfEVzwIO5ed8B813BXFYQQBbQCLcB/s1600/IMG_4525.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TLSg_TbKd10/WR2790JMr-I/AAAAAAAAL5o/F4FVvCGXnfEVzwIO5ed8B813BXFYQQBbQCLcB/s400/IMG_4525.JPG" width="580" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the bridge at the top of Tuolumne Falls </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
I pick it up. One of the moms approaches with a smile. "Whatcha got there?"<br />
<br />
"Luck, I hope."<br />
<br />
"Gonna keep it?" she asks. I offer it to her. "No, but thanks," she says, "I don't think you can keep luck."<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5zWQ_QmOGbM/WQ5tKAlI-CI/AAAAAAAALys/JRQ-YyBs6dEgiuybUsXHBtXryCTGA0ergCLcB/s1600/IMG_4524.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="115" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5zWQ_QmOGbM/WQ5tKAlI-CI/AAAAAAAALys/JRQ-YyBs6dEgiuybUsXHBtXryCTGA0ergCLcB/s200/IMG_4524.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
"We're closed," calls a voice from somewhere inside.<br />
<br />
I call back, "I found this horse shoe and I just want to drop it off."<br />
<br />
"Wait a minute." <br />
<br />
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." <br />
<br />
"Love to but..."<br />
<br />
"I know," he says. "Everyone is going somewhere." As an after thought he adds, "Want an apple? We have an extra." <br />
<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
"A spy novel," he answers. "I don't read serious books any more. Too depressing. Where you headed?"<br />
<br />
"McCabe Lake or maybe just Return Creek."<br />
<br />
"Been there often," he says. "I've hiked all over these mountains. Do it while you can."<br />
<br />
"I'm trying."<br />
<br />
"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?"<br />
<br />
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." <br />
<br />
He walks over and takes a seat by the lady. I cannot hear what they say, but I can see she is laughing.<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iiikJZ6jRyw/WQ5tVoNCs0I/AAAAAAAALy8/_LIH41Rnzt8RFHxI-zezBUejhlSK-EUvgCLcB/s1600/IMG_4537.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iiikJZ6jRyw/WQ5tVoNCs0I/AAAAAAAALy8/_LIH41Rnzt8RFHxI-zezBUejhlSK-EUvgCLcB/s400/IMG_4537.JPG" width="580" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cold Canyon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We stop to chat. They a very attractive pair in their forties with ULA packs, Leki poles and natty safari shirts. He is tall, tan and muscular and hikes hatless showing off perfectly-groomed hair. She has bright blue eyes, long black hair, and presents a distractingly impressive display of cleavage. Something about them seems gaudy. <br />
<br />
"How far to Glen Aulin?" he asks. <br />
<br />
"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. <br />
<br />
"We are section hiking the PCT," he says. "We've just come from Twin Lakes."<br />
<br />
"We done all of Southern California," she says.<br />
<br />
"Cool," I respond with trumped up enthusiasm.<br />
<br />
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?" <br />
<br />
The words are like a slap in face. "You read it?"<br />
<br />
"Sometimes," she says. "I don't like it all that much. It's not my thing, I like the ones like <i>Wild </i>about hiking. Isn't it something though?"<br />
<br />
"Quite a coincidence," I say. I don't say that every other person she passes on the trail is probably also writing a blog.<br />
<br />
"Maybe you'll mention us."<br />
<br />
"Definitely."<br />
<br />
We part with handshake. They were giving me a headache.<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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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. <br />
<br />
"We drank champagne again at Roosevelt Lake," he says. <br />
<br />
"That's not all we did again," whispers Bellbottoms squeezing against him.<br />
<br />
After they squeeze a bit more he asks, "Where you headed?" <br />
<br />
"I'm debating about Lower McCabe Lake."<br />
<br />
"Hope you don't mind skeeters," warns Bellbottoms. "I don't, but some people do."<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
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.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Return Creek</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Minutes later I drop my pack by Return Creek. By chance I have stumbled upon a very tempting campsite. It is about 20 feet to close to the creek, but it's well established. There's a fire ring, sitting log and cozy patch of pine needles between two trees. <br />
<br />
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?"<br />
<br />
"Help yourself," he says. "I'm Bob."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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Bob is cowboy camping. He is laying on his side and sits up as I approach. <br />
<br />
"Don't mean to intrude."<br />
<br />
"I was just resting for a minute. Got a headache."<br />
<br />
He doesn't look well. "If you want to chat later, come on over. I'm just going to go eat."<br />
<br />
He nods. "I'm not hungry." He gets on his feet slowly. He is unsteady. To my surprise, he follows me back. <br />
<br />
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?"<br />
<br />
"LA."<br />
<br />
"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?"<br />
<br />
"I'm retired," I say with the dawing realization that something's isn't right with Bob.<br />
<br />
"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 <i>The Little White Duck</i>. You know... "there's a little white duck sitting in the water, a little white duck doing what he oughter..."<br />
<br />
"You were rescued?"<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
I'm worried. We are only at 8,400 feet but Bob isn't right. <br />
<br />
"You should eat something. Can I make you some tea?"<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
"Do you think you have altitude sickness?"<br />
<br />
"I don't think so. I haven't had it in a long time. 10 years."<br />
<br />
"You mean the helicopter rescue?"<br />
<br />
"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?"<br />
<br />
"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. <br />
<br />
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." <br />
<br />
He nods and swallows the pills.<br />
<br />
"Let's talk in the morning. OK?"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-46408512086446310632014-07-21T19:10:00.000-07:002019-07-14T06:17:13.916-07:00Denizens of the WildernessIt is the middle of the night. I startle from a deep sleep. Someone is shining a light on me in my tent. I fumble for my glasses and stare out. There are three headlamps. Three shadowy figures. I shield my eyes. <br />
<br />
The figures say:<br />
<br />
"This is <i>our</i> site." <br />
<br />
"The motherfucker."<br />
<br />
"Let's make him move."<br />
<br />
My adrenaline is pumping. My thoughts clear. "Go away. I'm trying to sleep."<br />
<br />
They reply:<br />
<br />
"We were here first."<br />
<br />
"Told you this would happen."<br />
<br />
"Asshole."<br />
<br />
Someone from across the way yells, "Quiet."<br />
<br />
They tone it down:<br />
<br />
"Let's split before a ranger comes."<br />
<br />
"What about our stuff?"<br />
<br />
"Fuck him. Fuck the ranger." <br />
<br />
They head over to the bear locker. It opens with a screech and a clank. They bang around in there. I holler, "Don't touch that canister!" <br />
<br />
One shouts back,"Fuck you." <br />
<br />
I grab my pants and thrash about trying to get my feet through. A leg gets caught on a something. I can't find my light. Thwarted, frustrated; I stop struggling. What would I to do anyway? Three of them. Me? <br />
<br />
I hear their gathered voices across the way. The locker clanks shut and they crunch off in the darkness. It is still again. The frogs and crickets resume their chant. I slip on my camp shoes and climb out to check. The canister is untouched. I undress and lie sleepless forever, listening for any cracking sound in the trees. <br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
By the time I awake, the sun is already flickering through the trees. My thoughts are as clear as mud; my legs are lead. The coffee and freeze-bag oatmeal help, but I'm all jitters. My motivation is gone; I want to quit; go home; shower and lay on the couch.<br />
<br />
Then something automatic kicks in. I force myself to break camp. I shoulder the pack and begin walking in the direction of Harden Lake. It's one foot in front of the other until I lose time and find my pace. Then the trail beckons and I'm striding along with that feeling of independence that comes from being one with a pack on your back. <br />
<br />
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The route to Harden Lake follows the old Tioga Road above the middle fork of the Tuolumne. A blackish trickle meanders in the wash below. I try to image the wagons that drove through here hauling supplies up to and silver down from Tioga Pass. <br />
<br />
After a mile, the trail veers onto a single track and descends through a burn zone. The Rim fire burned through here a year ago, but the air is acrid as a whiff of last night's campfire. There are few signs of rebirth, but the desolation is menacing and primal.<br />
<br />
Past the burn zone, the woods thicken and fingers of a bracing and chilly fog seep into the woods. The cool air feels good. I breathe deeply and realize: despite all the tumult, my breathing was good all night. No panting. No altitude illness! Maybe I have beat the demon. <br />
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<br />
At first sight, Harden lake is a shriveled disappointment of the place we picnicked a decade ago. The shore has retreated; grasses are are brittle and brown. I find the very boulder where Lilalee sunned and read a passage from a European poetess I'd never hear of and don't remember. It's lapping of the shore I remember.<br />
<br />
No reason to stop. I turn east. The descent and the desire to see carry me along. I cross a steamy meadow in the last blush of its spring bloom, a slippery seep swarming with mosquitoes, and an open airy woods. A breeze kicks up. Big, bright, battleship clouds steam across the sky. I come to a outcrop with a grand view across Tuolumne Canyon. I drop my pack, grab a Picky Bar and get comfortable. Matterhorn canyon is out there. I'll be there in a couple of days.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View across Tuolumne Canyon.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<hr />
<br />
Tuolumne is a bustle. Cars, tour buses and RVs stream past. Clots of tourists kick up dust clouds as they cross the meadow to Parson's Lodge. Brightly-colored climbers dangle from Lambert Dome. Backpackers by the hundreds shuffle along in every direction. Everywhere you look, people are busy being on vacation. <br />
<br />
I pull into the Tuolumne Market to use the pay phone. I promised to let Lilalee know everything is fine. I pass a group of gritty hikers laying about the shaded picnic tables by the phones. A deeply-tanned young woman with hair tied up in a bandanna and wearing a stained, yellow crew-neck has attracted a circle of trim young men. They wear REI approved sunglasses, have flat stomachs, tan legs and long hair. She sips a beer while one offers advice for shooing off a bear. <br />
<br />
I leave Lilalee a message and go inside to renew my supply of energy bars. While on line to pay, I overhear a woman in a spotless pair of hiking pants, new boots and gold earrings complain about the wait to enter the park. "It's just awful." The man next in line agrees with a pitying nod, but he may just be trying to avoid a conversation.<br />
<br />
I leave the market and start driving around for a place to park for four days. I get lucky. I find a spot north of Lambert Dome across from the best bear lockers in Tuolumne. I've tried them all: the Wilderness Center, Lambert Dome, Tuolumne Lodge, the Cathedral Lakes, or Elizabeth Lake. There's no better bear boxes this side of Murphy Creek. There's no trash. A human can open the doors. There's so much available space here you could have an entire locker to yourself for days. Don't tell anyone.<br />
<br />
I close up the car, heft my pack and cross the highway to the Wilderness Center. There must be a fifty backpackers prepping for the trail: changing clothes, stuffing gear, and sorting through resupply boxes. Some are sleeping on the hoods on their cars; others gathered in lunch pow-wows. <br />
<br />
I queue for my permit. I'm tenth in line behind a couple. When we exchange pleasantries. He is a half-head taller than me, athletic, pre-maturely grey hair, boyish face, shinning teeth and strong chin. She is long necked with clear skin, long dark hair, attentive deep-blue eyes, and an alluring figure. Men and women are stealing glances at her. She is not quite young enough to be his daughter. <br />
<br />
"Looks like we've got a wait." I say in a cheery attempt not to sound like some funny-looking bald guy. <br />
<br />
"Goes fast," he says. <br />
<br />
The line advances and we shuffle our packs forward. <br />
<br />
"Where you headed?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"We're doing the JMT... if we get a permit."<br />
<br />
"We will get a permit," she asserts. "Quit fretting." She gives him a mock scowl and then pulls three Hacky Sacks from her pack and starts to juggle. <br />
<br />
"You?" he asks taking no notice of the juggling.<br />
<br />
"Matterhorn Canyon," I answer staring at her. "She's juggling," I add as if it wasn't perfectly obvious.<br />
<br />
"She does that," he says. <br />
<br />
She lets the sacks fall into her hand and and holds them out to me. "Want to try?" <br />
<br />
"No. No," I say in an effort to be clever. "I know my limits. No point advertising them. Hah! Hah!" <br />
<br />
She shrugs. A paralyzing wave of neurotic doubt passes through me. <br />
<br />
She resumes juggling, performs a few fancy stunts and stuffs the sacks back in her pack. She turns to him and says, "Shouldn't you call before we leave?"<br />
<br />
"Good idea," he says and takes out his cell.<br />
<br />
"I don't think that works here," I say helpfully. "There's a pay phone at the store."<br />
<br />
"Ah! I have a signal," he says and wanders off a bit. I hear him say, "Hi honey."<br />
<br />
She gives me a defiant look as if to dare me to form a conclusion. <br />
<br />
The line advances. <br />
<br />
"I hear we could get some weather tomorrow," I say. <br />
<br />
"Weather happens," she says. <br />
<br />
We wait in an uncomfortable silence until he rejoins. We exchange a few more pleasantries, but it's clear they have no interest. Twenty minutes later, they exit the Wilderness Office flashing their JMT permit. <br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
The late afternoon walk from the Wilderness center to the Backpackers Camp is a hot slog through slippery sand and gravel. I prowl the length of the camp hoping for a quiet site away from the RVs. It's like walking through a exhibition of outdoor gear: all the latest in inner and outerwear drying on tree limbs, artistic displays of the latest titanium cooksets and a full spectrum of shelters including tunnel tents, tarp tents and free standers. Tarp tents are most common. A couple demonstrates the struggles of hanging a tent hammock. A red-headed fellow with a corona of beard and hair secures his bivvy to a picnic table with a bear canister. Further down, an older guy luxuriates in an airy Zpacks Duplex tent while from reading from a smart phone. I stop to admire. His tent is twice the volume and half the weight of my UL-1. The guy looks up and I give a double thumbs up. <br />
<br />
I do not see another solo.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tuolumne Meadows Backpacker Camp</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The only unoccupied site is by the camp entrance. I plop my pack on the table, and stake my claim with the five-dollar deposit. There will be no doubt about this campsite.<br />
<br />
I find a cozy pile of pine needles and then erect the UL-1, inflate the Neoair mattress and Exped pillow, spread out the SubZero +20 and dive in for a nap. It feels great. I'm in heaven. But the sun is blasting the tent and, in 15 minutes, I am in a dripping sweat. I slither out, snatch the pillow and stretch out on the picnic table in the dappled shade of a Jeffrey pine. <br />
<br />
I wake fuzzy headed and thirsty. I need a bathroom. I need water for cooking. I collect my toothbrush and two-litter bottle. On the way to the bathroom, the guy in the next site quips, "Saw some good logs?" <br />
<br />
The bathroom is down by the RVs and truck campers. The floor is wet; the room gloomy. A father is looking after two little boys. The oldest is maybe eight; the youngest maybe four. Dad shepherds the younger boy into a stall and patiently provides detailed instructions. <br />
<br />
The older boy waits impatiently by the sink. He looks up at me and explains, "He's too little to know how." <br />
<br />
"It's ok," I say. "One day you boys will be big."<br />
<br />
"I'm already big," replies the boy.<br />
<br />
I circle the building to fill my 2-liter bottle. The sign over the basin reads, "Do Not Wash Clothes." A tweener girl is there. She stands away basin with her arms wrapped around a jug. Her face is creased. She is concerned. I walk over an look in. There's a bloated, dead squirrel. It has started to smell.<br />
<br />
"Is it safe?" she asks.<br />
<br />
"What do you say we fill up at the next one?"<br />
<br />
"I know where it is," she says. <br />
<br />
I follow. <br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
The afternoon is fading. I'm waiting for my fideo, powdered-tomato-paste, mushroom and sausage-bit spaghetti dinner to hydrate. It does not look appetizing.<br />
<br />
A guy about my age walks up. "OK to share your campsite? I'm Doug."<br />
<br />
"No problem Doug. Make yourself comfortable." <br />
<br />
I am happy to share. Relieved actually. A solo with a whole campsite seems greedy. Doug wanders off to set up his gear. I figure he'll do his thing; I'll do mine. <br />
<br />
I finish dinner. There is still light. I grab my book. He returns to the table with his cook set and package of Mountain House Mac and Cheese. "Want some?" he asks.<br />
<br />
I decline, but with a sense of regret. His food looks a lot better than mine. Cheese is but one more item on the growing list that the aging process has taken. I pick up my book and read to take my mind off the macaroni.<br />
<br />
"What are you reading."<br />
<br />
"This? A novel." <br />
<br />
"Mind if I look?" <br />
<br />
I hand it across the table. He turns it over, reads the cover and hands it back. "I don't know this one." <br />
<br />
"Light reading on the trail. 3.5 ounces. 4 is my limit."<br />
<br />
"Oh... you're a lightweight then?" he says sarcastically. <br />
<br />
"I watch every ounce. My wife says I'm compulsive."<br />
<br />
"No doubt. I never disagree with a someone's spouse." <br />
<br />
I put the book down. This fellow has my interest. <br />
<br />
"Where are you hiking?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"Up Cathedral Pass to Clouds Rest. I've been kicking around Yosemite Creek and Ten Lakes. I'm between gigs. Is there a better way to fill a day?" <br />
<br />
We begin discussing our hiking and personal histories. "I've had a checkered career," he says. He was a ski bum, wilderness guide, journalist, and now a mediation instructor who tours the world ministering to acolytes. <br />
<br />
"I'm no meditator," I say. <br />
<br />
"I wasn't either," he replies. "It found me. Then I went to Nepal and became a Buddhist. Ever try?" <br />
<br />
"I'm not religious." <br />
<br />
"That's very Buddhist," he says with a smile that's a bit too earnest for my taste. I tell him that I have nothing against any religion or belief system. "I don't know if it is the self-righteousness or underlying authoritarian tone, but I could never believe in one. I'm happy to do without."<br />
<br />
He nods knowingly as if we are of a single mind and I have just restated his very own thoughts on religion. "Would you be interested in reading a book?" he says. "My book actually. I wrote a biography of the first American yogi. You sound like him."<br />
<br />
"No kidding?"<br />
<br />
"No kidding." he responds.<br />
<br />
"Am I about to be converted?" <br />
<br />
"No, but I bet we would have an interesting discussion."<br />
<br />
I am writing down the name of the book when a big-boned, thick-limbed woman with an animated, cheery demeanor approaches. She must be pushing six feet and be on the declining side of 50. She has coarse-blond hair which she ruffles apologetically. <br />
<br />
"Hi. I'm Nancy. Mind if I pitch my tent over here?" She points to an exposed, gravely spot. "My tent doesn't take much space." <br />
<br />
She doesn't need our consent, but of course we agree. <br />
<br />
"Thanks," she says apologetically. "I go pitch my tent if that's OK." <br />
<br />
We trade shrugs and pass the next hour in a lively, deeply-profound, utterly-useless conversation about personal and worldly woes. Our perspectives are so fundamentally different that each topic concludes at an agreeable impasse. Since solving the world's problems exhausts me. I suggest that we head over to hear nightly campfire talk. Doug agrees.<br />
<br />
Just before we leave our female companion returns. She sets a sack lunch on the table. "My I join? Don't mean to intrude." She takes a seat and pulls out a tasty looking mega burrito. It looks delicious. "Been thinking about this all afternoon," she says and takes a substantial bite. "Mmmm. Want some?" <br />
<br />
We both decline. My stomach growls audibly.<br />
<br />
"Where are you from? I'm from Orange County. I love it here. We use to come with the kids until the divorce. They're married now. Now I come by myself. Hah!" <br />
<br />
She takes another bite. She seems like a happy person. I'm skeptical. "Mmmm. Damn. This is delicious. Sure you don't want some? What do you do? I'm a teacher." She examines each of us in turn waiting for an answer.<br />
<br />
"I'm retired," I say.<br />
<br />
"I'm a teacher," says Doug. "A meditation teacher."<br />
<br />
"How cool! I've always wanted to try meditation. I do some yoga. I hope I'm not bothering."<br />
<br />
"No bother," I say. "But were just going to the ranger talk."<br />
<br />
She apolgizes profusely. Doug an I excuse ourselves.<br />
<br />
"What a kind person," he says with the sincerest appreciation.<br />
<br />
"I know," I say. "One week that and I would jump off a bridge."<br />
<br />
He gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder, "You definitely need meditation." <br />
<br />
"Probably."<br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
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<br />
It's just another summer night and another Tuolumne Meadows Campfire. Many of the seats are occupied — mostly by moms, dads and fidgety kids from the RVs and van campers. They are a minority. The rest are back at the campsites watching satellite TV. <br />
<br />
We find seats a few rows back and watch the ranger light the campfire. She is a slender woman in her early 30s. I doubt she is shoulder high in lug boots. Her double pocketed shirt is sharply pressed. Her badge is shiny. A ponytail swings from her campaign hat. A sun-bleached accomplice arranges demonstration gear on the front bench. She about the same age and has the build of a gymnast. Both women are robustly healthy and attractive. There's a affectionate camaraderie. <br />
<br />
"Good evening everyone. I'm Ranger Jeanne," she says stoking the fire. "Tonight's talk is about big wall climbing. Who here has done some rock climbing?" <br />
<br />
A few hands shoot up. <br />
<br />
"Good! I hope the rest of you will find this interesting and maybe some of you will be inspired." <br />
<br />
There's a skeptical titter from the crowd.<br />
<br />
"Did you know that many of the important innovations in mountain climbing were developed right here in Yosemite by locals?" She tells us about the climbers going back to the days of John Muir. She recites their names and innovations with reverence. Hardin, Robbins, Pratt, Hechtel, Johnson, Skinner and Pianna. The names mean nothing to me. She tells of the competitive drive, spirit of adventure, and fun-loving disregard of caution that made them great.<br />
<br />
She asks a woman in the front row to help demonstrate the use of ropes, harness, cams and pulley. "We have to haul all our gear and all our food and all our water up the wall. The first climb up El Cap took 11 days. I've done it in 5 days. I had to sleep in a hammock secured to the rock. No rolling over. And we cooked on a ledge not much wider than those bench seats. One time I was 2,000 feet up and the wind blew an onion skin from my hand. It floated, right in front of us, up and down, back and forth, like an angel for a full hour before the wind took it.<br />
<br />
"Probably the scariest thing is the 'pendulum." She starts running back and forth in front of the campfire. "You have to run like this on a ledge to get enough momentum. Then you swing like Tarzan to get across to the next ledge. You have to do it just right." <br />
<br />
A "wow" rises from the crowd. <br />
<br />
"But that is not the most dangerous thing. You could get caught in a storm. You can slip and your fingers can get stiff. The big worry is falling ice. A falling icicle can be lethal. Anything falling is dangerous. You can never drop anything. But if you do, you don't need it."<br />
<br />
After a few question from the audience like "how do you pee" and "how long are the ropes," the talk concludes. <br />
<br />
It leaves me feeling weary, depressed, hopelessly inadequate and very concerned for Ranger Jeanne. I cannot fathom it. It seems crazy. Why would this amazing young woman assume these risks? What must her parent think? What must anyone who cares for her think? <br />
<br />
The sun-bleached accomplice and three men gather around Ranger Jeanne in a circle of support. High fives all around. "Let's join them," says Doug. "I used to climb."<br />
<br />
"No surprise," I mutter but he doesn't hear. <br />
<br />
I follow him down and find a spot a behind Doug. In short order, he captures the attention of the sun-bleached accomplice. He tells of his time climbing in the Himalayas, and his experiences in a Tibetan Monastery. He promises to teach a meditation class. <br />
<br />
I decide to return to camp and step inconspicuously away from the group. For same reason, Ranger Jeanne turns to me and asks, "Did you like the talk? Was it interesting?" <br />
<br />
I am blunt. "It made me uncomfortable."<br />
<br />
She is taken back, but no put off. "Really? Why do you say that?" <br />
<br />
"Because it seems so reckless. Because I could never to do that. Because you might die. Because I imagine someone I love doing it." <br />
<br />
"I think about that stuff all the time," she says. <br />
<br />
"Aren't you afraid?"<br />
<br />
"Of course I'm afraid. That why I do it."<br />
<br />
"But why?"<br />
<br />
"Because I'm more afraid not to." Then she thanks me and rejoins her friends. <br />
<br />
I start back to camp. It's very dark. I take a wrong turn, and end up on the wrong side of camp. The whole time I can stop thinking "what kind of person is like that and why am I here?"Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-81977042722644842292014-07-20T17:36:00.000-07:002017-10-09T07:41:50.567-07:00Along the way to White WolfI'm nibbling oatmeal and raisins out of zip lock bag when a pickup comes banging up Taboose Creek Road. I watch its headlights bob for a good 10 minutes before deciding I would probably get stuck driving up to the trail head. I could walk, but it's a 4-mile dusty slog. It's too early to head out for White Wolf. I need to kill some time. I pack up and head north with no more of a plan than grabbing a sandwich at Schat's Bakkery in Bishop.<br />
<br />
I queue up behind a woman wearing an expensive-looking flowery blouse and heavy gold necklace. Her purplish hair is pulled taught over a high forehead. Her is face stretched, powdered, rouged and immobile as if something human had been resected. I think she's older than me, but I can't be sure. She looks me over with expressionless, clear-blue eyes. I smile and say, "Good morning." She grunts an acknowledgement and with two disapproving sniffs steps a half-a-step back. I wonder what she'd think five days from now when I'm ripe from the trip up Matterhorn Canyon. <br />
<br />
I leave town with the windows down. Everyone is passing as I rubber neck at the Bishop Tuff and the rock along Sherwin Summit. Not far past Tom's place, I slow to watch a sedge of cranes circle over Crowley Lake. The air chills on the climb out of Long Valley. There's a crisp scent of Jaffery Pine. I feel the altitude: light headed and queasy. As I descend Deadman's Summit, past the June Lake Loop cutoff, Mount Lewis, Mount Gibbs and Mount Dana come into view. Tioga Pass is just ahead. It's too soon. I keep driving, past Lee Vining, over Conway Summit and through Bridgeport. The lush ranch lands north of town run serenely west towards the shadowy Sierra. Sonora pass is up there. The PCT runs through there. I decide to drive up.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just north of Bridgeport</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I turn off on 108. The road runs through the Little Walker Caldera and then climbs 3,000 feet to the pass. I pull into the Sonora Pass picnic area and park in a rock lined space. I feel the altitude again. I figure some exercise will help me feel better. I stuff a water bottle in my back pocket, the sandwich in a cargo pocket, grab my sticks and head south down the PCT. <br />
<br />
The trail winds on a graceful grade around the slopes. The terrain open and arid. Despite the elevation I'm not breathing hard. I walk about a mile across the parched bed of Sardine Creek and then up to a ridge with a grand 270 degree view. I plop on a flat rock and try to imagine this land before it was pushed up, when the rivers flowed across here to the west. The impermanence of the land is a comfort; I feel kinship — part of a greater whole. The thought makes me hungry. I unwrap the sandwich and breathe in the fresh bread, ripe tomato and savory ham. It will be the best food I will have for days. I have that rare sense of well being. Life is good.<br />
<br />
Three hikers round the bend on the trail to the southwest of me. They are a fast paced group. One woman and two men. I can hear their voices, but cannot tell what they are saying. They cover the ridge in minutes and pass, heads down, sticks clacking, a few strides apart, not 50 feet below me. After they cross the creek bed, I stand and I dust off. Time to move on. I stroll back to the car resolving to return here. <br />
<br />
As I pull out of the picnic area, I see the three hikers seated in the shade of a fir tree. Their packs are piled neatly against the trunk. A fellow with a long red ponytail and wizard beard sees me and sticks his thumb out. I pull over. They all spring up. I roll down the window.<br />
<br />
"Where you going?" <br />
<br />
"Bridgeport," says the fellow with the wizard beard.<br />
<br />
"That's where I'm headed." <br />
<br />
"Cool," he says with enthusiastically.<br />
<br />
I hop out and open the hatch. They all wear baseball hats, sunglasses and sport tattoos. Their limbs and faces are deeply sunburned, their clothes are filthy and they smell like yesterday's campfire. The wizard beard and the woman appear to be in their late twenties. His features are prematurely weathered. She is tall and has curly bleached hair. The other fellow is younger, sting-bean skinny with blush cheeks and a peach-fuzz beard. The stow their packs and climb in. Wizard beard takes the front seat. The tall woman and the young fellow pile in back.<br />
<br />
"Thanks man," says the wizard beard with a voice pitched higher than expected. " We really appreciate it." <br />
<br />
"Yea, thanks," the others chime in unison.<br />
<br />
I don't doubt they are appreciative, but I can tell that this thanks is well practised — my ride will be just another in a long line of trail-magic perks. In 45 minutes, we'll be headed our separate ways. Nonetheless, I'm glad for the company and interested in their stories.<br />
<br />
"I'm Light Ray, that's Comet and that's Soapy." he adds pointing to the woman and the younger fellow in turn. <br />
<br />
I look at them in the mirror. Comet breaks out a smile and gives Soapy a friendly push. I dismiss the thought that she seems familiar.<br />
<br />
"I haven't accepted that name," retorts Soapy. <br />
<br />
Comet explains, "He's Soapy because he washes dishes for Degnan's in Yosemite Village."<br />
<br />
I nod. I've eaten a dozen burgers at Degnan's. <br />
<br />
"He got it from some dirt bags in climber camp," says Light Ray. "That's where we all met." <br />
<br />
"So you are all climbers?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"He's the climber," says Soapy pointing at Light Ray. <br />
<br />
"We're just hikers," adds Comet.<br />
<br />
"So you're coming from Yosemite Valley?" <br />
<br />
"Yup," replies Light Ray. "Headed for Tahoe. What about you?"<br />
<br />
I tell them I have a permit to hike from Tuolumne to Matterhorn Canyon. "It's a shake out hike. For the JMT," I say and, in the hope of turning the subject to something more interesting, add, "Where are you from?" <br />
<br />
Suddenly Comet interjects, "Do I know you?" <br />
<br />
"Seems unlikely." <br />
<br />
I look in the mirror again. She does look familiar. <br />
<br />
"Imagine! Getting a hitch with someone you know! Is that trippy or what?" declares Soapy.<br />
<br />
"Very punny," says Light Ray knowing full well that Soapy hadn't yet realized there was one.<br />
<br />
"Are you the friend of Julie Swonk's family?" asks Comet. <br />
<br />
I look again. This time I'm sure. We've met. I can't think where. "Julie is my god daughter," I answer cautiously.<br />
<br />
"Holy fuck," she says. "I was at your New Year's eve Party. Don't you remember?"<br />
<br />
I look back. She has taken off her sunglasses. I am horrified. It's Julie's friend. Julie's mother Siobahn had invited her to our New Year's party. I lost my cool. I insulted her. She left angry. With good reason. My behavior was shameful. I'm 35 years her senior. All the embarrassment of that moment floods back. <br />
<br />
She sees the recognition in my face. "Yep. That's me," she says stating the obvious.<br />
<br />
"The writer?"<br />
<br />
"The writer. Small world don't you think?" she says with a hint of condescension. <br />
<br />
I have it coming. I try to think of something affable. Maybe open the door for an apology. Then I remember. "Aren't you hiking the PCT?"<br />
<br />
"Glad you asked. I was. Till my Father died," she says matter-of-factly.<br />
<br />
"Shit," says Light Ray turning to her. "I'm sorry man. I didn't know."<br />
<br />
"It's cool," she says implying the topic was closed.<br />
<br />
Light Ray, failing to get the hint, reaches over and places his hand reassuringly on her leg. It is a familiar touch. She doesn't object, but she squeezes his hand and returns it to him.<br />
<br />
"Fuck man. I'm so sorry. I can't even imagine my Dad dying," says Soapy pensively. <br />
<br />
I have nothing to say and too much to say. I glance in the mirror again. She is staring out at the slopes as they pass. She's young to lose a parent. I wonder, were they close? Some people come unglued. Is she coping? I think of old acquaintances that couldn't. All their promise was consumed in desperation and tragedy. I know now that not everyone makes it. I would like to say something supportive, helpful and forgiving but she is beyond my reach and if that is her path, I cannot help.<br />
<br />
"I read you blog." I say. "You have a gift."<br />
<br />
"Thanks for reading," she says indifferently.<br />
<br />
"You have a blog?" asks Soapy.<br />
<br />
"Yea."<br />
<br />
Soapy persists, "Will I be in it?" <br />
<br />
"You will all be in it," she says. "Don't worry." <br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mono County Court house, Bridgeport </td></tr>
</tbody></table>The remainder of the ride passes in a subdued silence. They ask to be let off at the Courthouse. I pull up and we all climb out. They shoulder their packs and shake my hand in thanks. The ride turned out different than we all expected.<br />
<br />
I would have liked to talk more. Ask about their personal histories, hear their aspirations, find out where they grew up, get a sense of what makes them laugh. Sadly, more opportunities get lost than found. So it is this time. <br />
<br />
Light Ray and Soapy head north for the Redwood Motel. There is a large plastic cast of bucking bronco mounted on a pole and the pool. The place looks inviting. Comet heads south toward the general store. I want to call after her, but don't. I drive past on the way south. In the rear view mirror, she signals with a little wave. I am grateful. It is unlikely we should meet again. Sometimes you must leave a thing behind and just live with a little more regret.<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
I show the ranger at the park entry my senior card. He's seems like just a kid. He waves me through for free. Age has a few perks. After all these years, Yosemite feels like a comfort zone. The land and the mountains are familiar. I've hiked many of the trails. <br />
<br />
It is slow going out of Tuolumne. I'm stuck behind a RV that's too big for the road. I don't mind. I hang back and take in the views. By the time I arrive at White Wolf, it is well into the afternoon. <br />
I park across the road from the White Wolf Lodge. We've stayed in those cabins. They are more decrepit than rustic, but LilaLee loves this place. I wish she was here. <br />
<br />
I shoulder my pack, stuff $5 in a pay envelope and and head over to back packer's area via the back route. My campsite karma is good. Site 42, in far north corner of the backpacker's camp, is open. I should have my wilderness permit, but they never check here. I'll get it tomorrow. Curiously there are 3 bottles of Johnny Reb, one bottle of Smirnoff and assorted snacks in the bearbox. I'm pretty sure this is not allowed, but it's not my problem. I'm just glad to have a quiet spot.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;"></div>The afternoon fades. I feel restless, but it is too late for a stroll to Harden's Lake. I decide to walk the campground loop before diner. To my astonishment, there is an empty bear trap just outside the backpacker's area. It is impressive, crude and big as my car. Four kids are climbing on it, oblivious to it's purpose or why it might be here now or the 'danger' signs prominently posted both sides of the trap. It strikes me as curious. Why would a bear climb into that thing. Why wouldn't it know better? But then again, aren't we all prone to walk into traps even when we know better? <br />
<br />
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Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-11351918466932219462014-07-19T15:20:00.000-07:002017-04-04T20:15:55.877-07:00Taboose Creek Campground<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xRnc74YuptM/WOFzbRXdzzI/AAAAAAAALcE/FOHHHqKEhaQ95DG2IEd8ZmYg-x2EnafLACLcB/s1600/DSC01879.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xRnc74YuptM/WOFzbRXdzzI/AAAAAAAALcE/FOHHHqKEhaQ95DG2IEd8ZmYg-x2EnafLACLcB/s640/DSC01879.JPG" width="640" /></a></div></div><br />
It will be dusk soon. <br />
<br />
I drive off the pavement towards the escarpment. I want to camp near the creek about a half-mile up. The roadbed is soft and rutted. Much worse than I remember. I speed up; if I slow, I'll get stuck. I steer like a mad to stay out of the brush. My dust wake drifts towards the row truck campers that line the creek. If the windows were down, I would surely hear the cursing.<br />
<br />
I had nothing but grief getting out of town. First there was network trouble. The router got smoked. I just couldn't leave Lilalee without a network for a week. I have nothing but animus for computer problems. It took about 5 dozen 'fucks' to get the new router working. And, then I noticed the tortillas for the trip had turned a deathly blue-green. So there was a bonus trip to the market. <br />
<br />
I left in a fugue. It doesn't take a genius to know when you are being thwarted by fate; it's knowing why that takes genius. I couldn't blame Lilalee for keeping a distance. She did send me off with a kiss but tasted more of sympathy than tenderness.<br />
<br />
No doubt I have over reacted. I'm feeling the pressure. Thursday, I had dinner with Duane. He asked if I would like a hiking partner on the JMT. I was thrilled at the prospect and agreed on the spot. Yesterday, I applied to Yosemite to add Duane to the permit. I had the approval before lunch. We're set. On September 4th we will step off the trail head at Mono Meadow. Now I must lick the altitude problem. This time I must get it right. <br />
<br />
I have a good plan to acclimatize. Tonight I'm at 4,000 feet. Tomorrow I camp at White Wolf; the night after at Tuolumne's Backpackers Camp. That's an average ascent rate of 2,000 feet over 3 days. If that doesn't do it, I don't know what will. <br />
<br />
The road curves over to the creek. I'm in luck. No one is camped up this far. I find a cozy spot in a copse of cottonwoods. The creeks spills gently past in glistening pools just a few yards away. There's still a bit of pink in the sky and cool air is coming down the canyons. I decide to cowboy camp. I throw out a tarp, my pad and sleeping bag. Before settling in, I filter some water from the creek into my new Platy Bottle to hydrate my Minute-Rice, Harmony-House-red-bean and chili-powder concoction. While the beans soak, I lean back and listen to the creek and the flutter of the cottonwoods. Then I remember there is a $10 camping fee. I should go back and pony up, but don't feel like it. Better to stay here and watch Vega, Deneb and Altair emerge from the Sierra sky.<br />
<br />
Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-23795406300658946352014-07-15T16:25:00.000-07:002020-03-25T07:11:48.052-07:00The smell of the mountains in the morning<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C4y11ZI-nOg/WLTBt90TYGI/AAAAAAAALH0/s3iMILMhxyc4pXgPbaOedSsJhc2hh5e9wCLcB/s1600/DSC03413.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C4y11ZI-nOg/WLTBt90TYGI/AAAAAAAALH0/s3iMILMhxyc4pXgPbaOedSsJhc2hh5e9wCLcB/s640/DSC03413.JPG" width="227" /></a><br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
"Hold it." he says in a tone usually reserved for patients. "You woke up and couldn't catch a breath?" <br />
<br />
"Yea. Sorta..." <br />
<br />
"And you were at niney-six hundred?" <br />
<br />
"Yea, but I was acclimated." <br />
<br />
He leans in. Very insistent. "Bullshit." <br />
<br />
"I took Diamox."<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
"Come on. It wasn't that bad."<br />
<br />
"You're being a stubborn ass," he says.<br />
<br />
"This is pissing me off."<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I head over to the gadget aisles and slide around a dad and two adolescent sons who are studying the Mountain House dinners. <br />
<br />
"I want Shepard Pie," says one of the boys.<br />
<br />
"I'd stick with the Alfredo," warns the dad.<br />
<br />
"It makes me puke," says the other boy. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
"It's expensive," says one.<br />
<br />
"But we'll share," says the other.<br />
<br />
"I hope you won't mind me interrupting," I say, "but the plastic on that fold-up handle will melt."<br />
<br />
The girls trade looks. "Thank you," says the other, making it clear I should go away. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
"This is a view of Matterhorn Canyon from Horse Creek Pass." she says. "Here's where we camped at Miller Lake."<br />
<br />
"Wow. Never been there," says the associate.<br />
<br />
"It's amazing. Here's a view down from the switchbacks going up Baxter Pass.," she adds. <br />
<br />
They stare silently in the phone. I try to steal a look without seeming to intrude. They don't notice. <br />
<br />
"Next week we're going to section from Sonora to Tahoe," he says.<br />
<br />
"I love that part of the PCT. Really..." she insists, "you've got to see it." <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ujEjccxHaP8/WMrUtvy_YLI/AAAAAAAALP8/eqkRN-dtlf0Srr3PGHIglCTCL10wbyA0QCLcB/s1600/DSC03469.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ujEjccxHaP8/WMrUtvy_YLI/AAAAAAAALP8/eqkRN-dtlf0Srr3PGHIglCTCL10wbyA0QCLcB/s320/DSC03469.JPG" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1 1/4 ounces of inspiration </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I take the twelve-dollar Platy bottle with a flash of bourgeois guilt: a self-respecting thru-hiker would just buy $2 a bottle of Smart Water and reuse it till it cracked. But the Platy bottle folds. It fits the side pocket of my Mariposa; it's light; it fills me joy. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Got a trip planned?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"Yea," he says. "My wife and I are starting the JMT next week."<br />
<br />
"No kidding?"<br />
<br />
"No kidding."<br />
<br />
"Happy Isles?"<br />
<br />
"Yea. It's our third time. We love it," he says. <br />
<br />
The line advances.<br />
<br />
"What about you?" he asks.<br />
<br />
"Matterhorn Canyon," I reply. <br />
<br />
"I've heard it's amazing," he says.<br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
I am making a stew for dinner. Lilalee loves my stew. The secret is the carrots. But I'll never tell.<br />
<br />
"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"<br />
<br />
"Tough day?"<br />
<br />
"The usual crap, meetings, meeting, meetings," she says. "How's Swonk?"<br />
<br />
"Same ol', same ol'. He's good. Siobahn's good. Everyone's good."<br />
<br />
"What did you guys talk about?"<br />
<br />
"The usual. Not much." <br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
"I got the permit for my next hike."<br />
<br />
The creases around her eyes deepen. "Where you going? "<br />
<br />
"A place called Matterhorn Creek. Just north of Yosemite. I'm leaving Saturday. That OK?"<br />
<br />
"Doesn't really matter what I say, does it?"<br />
<br />
"Of course it does." <br />
<br />
But we both know it doesn't which puts a damper on dinner. But I don't mind, I can almost smell the mountains.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe height="480" src="https://www.google.com/maps/d/embed?mid=1lebZddM3fIFKPjMgsCfF_DnhAIs" width="640"></iframe><br />
Plan for the Matterhorn Creek hike</div>
Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-42166404653472326572014-07-09T12:42:00.000-07:002016-12-21T11:59:19.122-08:00ORT #2, Day 3 -- Life on the Bubbs Creek TrailIt wasn't a dream. My face and neck <i>are </i>wet. I fumble for my headlamp. The mesh is shiny with dripping rivulets. It must have rained. No getting back to sleep; no point setting the fly. I need coffee. <br />
<br />
I push my stuff into the dry part of the tent, pull on my clammy clothes and climb out. The night is chilled and foggy. My light reflects thick puffs of breath and penetrates maybe 10 feet into the surrounding fog. Out in the gloom the forest is alive with drips plinging into umpteen puddles otherwise there is nothing but me and my clouds of breath. <br />
<br />
I settle onto the wet bench and fire up the Jetboil. My fingers numb, I tear open the coffee packet with my teeth. I manage. The coffee is hot and profoundly delicious, better than I ever imagined — no coffee ever tasted better, like some pernicious proof that suffering makes life fuller. I sip slowly. The sky blues, the fog lifts, the sun paints the peaks pink. It's shaping up to be a fine day. Time to get rolling. <br />
<br />
I break camp and repack. As I push all my stuff into the Mariposa, I get agitated; There is a ton of crap here! Nearly 200 separate items of it. Two pounds of tent. Two ounces of air pillow. A six-ounces of satellite communicator. One-third-ounces of titanium spork. Ten and a half-grams of divided Diamox tablets. Seven grams of waxed dental floss. Three-quarter ounces of Bic lighter. Two-and-a-quarter ounces of clean underwear. Twenty-four ounces of Picky Bars. The list goes on and on. <br />
<br />
Back home nothing seemed superfluous; every item was scrutinized under a bright light with a proper dose of fret. Now it just seems like a bloat as does all the mountains of stuff that fills our closets and will one day be spread out on a lawn to be picked over by bargain hunters. John Muir hiked the Sierras in a sweater with a loaf of bread. If we met, I would surely seem preposterous. I guess that's who I am so let's get on with it.<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
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The Zumwalt Meadow trail cuts worn, wide and mostly level path through the woods. The forest is shady and brown. Birds flit in the dappled light and shifting shadows that create the impression of movement. The air is acrid with dust, pine and fir. No rain fell here last night. The tread is powdery dry from overuse and drought. The rhythmic crunch of my boots, the rattle of the JetBoil deep in my pack and whoosh of breath are the only sounds. There are no other hikers on the trail today. <br />
<br />
I cross the long metal trestle that spans the Kings River. The green torrent sweeps below crossing up the signals to my brain making me dizzy. I go with it. I'm flying on a trestle powered by the roar of water on rock into the river spray going nowhere. <br />
<br />
The bridge lands on a marshy, wooded peninsula that divides the Kings River from Bubbs Creek. A ravaging horde of mosquitoes awaits me. I'm suddenly in a swarm. I swing and swat again and again. I smush 5 into black smudges on my cheek. They are on my hands. I'm breathing mosquitos. They taste bitter. It's futile. I dash ahead thinking a mosquito can travel but a mere mile and a half an hour, but the forest is full of them. I must have DEET. <br />
<br />
I head for a log, drop my pack and grab the spray. (Note to self: stash DEET in the hip-belt pocket.) I spray everywhere. For good measure, I spray the air twice. My skin sizzles with chemicals, but the horde retreats just out of reach, hovering up and down and back and forth, like the Empire hatching an attack. I breathe easy and look around. I'm in a cozy clearing with a tidy black pond fed by a moss-coated seep, surrounded by ferns and carpeted with a foot-deep carpet of detritus. A hobbit would be cozy here. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sphinx and Avalanche Peak. Cross Mountain in the distance</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The trail climbs quickly up a thousand rocky feet over beautifully engineered switchbacks. A grand view of Kings Canyon opens to the west. The peaks above Avalanche Pass tower in the south. Bubbs Creek cascades below. This is why I want to be here. <br />
<br />
The trail levels off to an easy grade. I pass a doe and a fawn who keep an indifferent eye on me as they ruminate. Suddenly I'm hungry. I decide to grab a snack up ahead at the Avalanche Creek junction. <br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
A Dad in his 40's and his son have camped at the junction. Dad wears a heavy, disco-era plaid shirt, wool cap and camo pants. He is cinching their tent to the bottom bar of his external-frame Jansport like the one I carried for years. The kid is probably twelve. He also wears camo pants. A Chullo cap with strings is pulled down past his shoulders and, despite the chill, he just wears a sooty T-shirt. He is whittling at a green stick the size of his forearm with a knife that could field dress an elk. A fire smolders in a camp ring. <br />
<br />
I drop my pack and take a seat on a well-worn log. "Mind of I join?"<br />
<br />
"It's a free country," says the man. "We're just heading out."<br />
<br />
I point at the Jansport. "I loved that pack." <br />
<br />
"I wouldn't give mine up," he says and points at my Mariposa. "Those internal frames are crap. They don't transfer the weight right. Wouldn't take if you gave it to me." <br />
<br />
I take no special offense. I figure no harm is meant. I grew up with people like this fellow. He's not intending to be rude. Some people just need constant reassurance which they get by reminding others of their mistakes. I don't envy his kid. <br />
<br />
"Where ya'll off to?" <br />
<br />
"Up to Sphinx Lake," he says. <br />
<br />
The kid chimes in,"We're fishing for golden trout." And, just in case I missed it, he asserts his point with a nod of authority. He then peels a perfect curl from the stick. <br />
<br />
"That's some knife," I say.<br />
<br />
"It's my Pop's, I'm just using it. I'm making an light sword." Without breaking his concentration on his stick and the knife he says, "I bet you don't know how to whittle. You always push away, until you know what you're doing. Right Pop?" He pushes one curl off the end and starts another. "Ever gotten the same dollar mister?"<br />
<br />
"What do you mean?"<br />
<br />
"You know, you pay at a store and then the dollar goes to China and you get it back later." <br />
<br />
"No. why?" <br />
<br />
"My friend Davey does it. He keeps all the numbers. I'm gonna do it too."<br />
<br />
"Isn't that a lot of numbers to write down?"<br />
<br />
"Not if you use a cell phone," he says implying that use of a cell phone should be obvious any idiot . <br />
<br />
"Good point," I say. This kid's brain works a lot faster than mine; I've been condescending and outsmarted. No pride in that, but I remind myself that, being retired, I no longer need to keep up with twelve-year olds. <br />
<br />
Then the kid asks, "How come you're hiking by yourself?" <br />
<br />
Dad interjects, "Leave the man alone."<br />
<br />
"It's OK," I say because, as a matter of pride, I would like a chance at redemption and besides this kid is asking something that interests me. "My friends ask that." <br />
<br />
"What do you tell them?" <br />
<br />
Now I have a chance to say something important. Something that will stick. Something this kid might remember. I could say I no longer have friends who hike. I could say that I've got a screw loose. I could say that the mountains are a church. I could say that getting older is a lonely business, so you might as well get used to being alone. But instead, I affect a mock-serious frown, like some daft uncle, and say, "I tell them I want to." <br />
<br />
"Really?!" he replies and adds emphatically, "I don't ever want to. I like hiking with my Dad." <br />
<br />
Before I can remind him that his Dad isn't always going to be around and before he can spit out another question, his father sends him off to the creek to fetch water for the fire. <br />
<br />
"Sorry," says the Dad with a shrug. "That boy has a lot of questions."<br />
<br />
"No problem," I say, but I'm was sorry he sent the boy away. I felt there was more to say. <br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AMI-7QcfcUc/WFnKlAP11lI/AAAAAAAAK9g/QrpnwBWDMwMKTj9LXRLjLuz3ViT_2n8egCLcB/s1600/IMG_4443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AMI-7QcfcUc/WFnKlAP11lI/AAAAAAAAK9g/QrpnwBWDMwMKTj9LXRLjLuz3ViT_2n8egCLcB/s640/IMG_4443.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bubbs Trail</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The trail heads steadily up following the folds of the mountain. Now and again it approaches the creek near a pretty fall with a pool or a rapid. RV-sized boulders line the way. The peaks grow nearer. I enter a meadow. The tread is a sticky mud. The path is hidden in overgrowth of corn flower, mule ear, lupine and blue bells. Across the way I see a Ranger. He wear a fishing cap, a day pack and a gun on his hip. He's must about my age, slightly paunchy, tanned with a neatly-trimmed grey beard. We meet in the meadow. He is cordial but terse. "Got a permit?" he asks. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jpIPQNRPVbw/WFnMts1otbI/AAAAAAAAK9w/RswF8Q4OWfc8hyB7-ZUmwIouetwdq9RswCLcB/s1600/IMG_4492.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="330" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jpIPQNRPVbw/WFnMts1otbI/AAAAAAAAK9w/RswF8Q4OWfc8hyB7-ZUmwIouetwdq9RswCLcB/s640/IMG_4492.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>I unbuckle my hip belt. "Never mind," he says. "Where you going?"<br />
<br />
"East Lake."<br />
<br />
"Be careful crossing the creek," he says. "It's pretty high. If it rains, I'd be real damn careful." Have a good one," he adds with a touch to the brim of his hat and heads off the way I came.<br />
<br />
The trail continues up; so does the temperature. Cumulus clouds are sailing in from the east. It's hot and humid. I strip down to my shorts and continue the climb.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dC238qMEKRs/WFrFkekur0I/AAAAAAAAK_U/d5_GpslTs8I64NNwrgI7Vk6cZIPqUHb9wCLcB/s1600/IMG_4487.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dC238qMEKRs/WFrFkekur0I/AAAAAAAAK_U/d5_GpslTs8I64NNwrgI7Vk6cZIPqUHb9wCLcB/s320/IMG_4487.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>The trail comes up to an established camp by the creek near a lazy pond filled by a cascade that arches over a ten-foot embankment. A pair of very dirty hikers are resting there: a grey-headed, very tan woman my age and a very tall athletic man who is surely on the low side of thirty. They both have ULA Catalyst packs — thru hikers. <br />
<br />
"I'm Silvy. This is QuickStep," says the woman.<br />
<br />
"Where you headed?" <br />
<br />
"We're headed out," she says. "We just SoBo'ed the JMT. The monsoons blew us out. The trail was buried in snow. We couldn't get across Trail Crossing. There wasn't any way we could get down to Whitney Portal."<br />
<br />
"Turned it around a Guitar lake," adds Quickstep. "We just did that mother-fucking Forrester twice. Twice! And I'm motherfucking hungry."<br />
<br />
"We ran out of food this morning," explains Sylvie.<br />
<br />
I drop my pack and offer some trail mix. After a few perfunctory refusals, I shake about three ounces into their titanium cook pot. We chat a bit and I decide to get moving on in case the weather changes. <br />
<br />
"Thanks man," says Quick Step. "I'm gonna write you up in my blog."<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
The trail continues up. I pass 8,000 ft. It's now well into the afternoon. I'm feeling the pack and the altitude. There's still another 1,500 feet ahead. I shouldn't be tired. I probably needed more sleep. <br />
<br />
I take a break in an shady creekside campsite for a lunch of Justin Almond Butter on tortilla, and a handful of jerky. I listen to Bushtits jostling in a nearby bush and keep an eye on the swift moving puffy clouds and a grey cloud bank gathering in the east. I know I should pick up my pace, but they say it doesn't usually rain at night in the Sierras. I decide to lounge around for the better part of an hour. When I shoulder my pack, it feels really heavy and my legs feel like lead. After a while it feels good to be moving again. I still have plenty of reserve. <br />
<br />
I cross another beautiful and muggy meadow and there it is, the cut off to East Lake junction. Easy to miss. In a few minutes, I'm at the creek. It's rolling and high, above the knees, but not terrible. I drop my pack and feel the water. Numbing. I've fallen in more than once. I decide to take a breather and get focused with a Picky Bar. <br />
<br />
Three hikers appear on the opposite bank. Two women and a man. They remove their boots and roll up their pants. A woman wearing her hair in a red buff is the first to step in. She crosses without acrobatics. Once on the bank I give her a thumbs up. She smiles back. "Not too bad," she yells back to her partners. A woman in a duck-billed cap is next. She struggles a bit in the current. Finally the guy strides in and crosses quickly. About two-thirds of the way he slips, but bounces up immediately with a hearty "Whooo!" His clothes are soaked, but he's fine. They laugh. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l11dqFYYi94/WFnLCKkn_dI/AAAAAAAAK9k/umXpJYVlppMw9As47h3vVAU9KG9f8BwHgCLcB/s1600/IMG_4457.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l11dqFYYi94/WFnLCKkn_dI/AAAAAAAAK9k/umXpJYVlppMw9As47h3vVAU9KG9f8BwHgCLcB/s640/IMG_4457.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Bubbs Creek crossing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>They drop their packs by a sitting log across the tread. "I'm Ghost," says the woman in the red buff. "This is Peachy," she adds with a gesture to the woman in the duck-billed hat and that is Samwise." <br />
<br />
"I don't think 'Samwise' is gonna stick," says Samwise affecting a quarrel. "They think I hike like a hobbit." In truth he is a slender myopic sort not the least bit hobbit-like. <br />
<br />
"It could be worse," I say. "you could be Dunkin". <br />
<br />
"I like it," proclaims Ghost.<br />
<br />
"I like it," seconds Peachy.<br />
<br />
"Got a trail name?" asks Ghost<br />
<br />
I shrug.<br />
<br />
Peachy wraps arm around Ghost for my benefit and says, "She got 'Ghost' on the PCT."<br />
<br />
"I don't think mine's is going to stick," Samwise reminds us and lays down on the log. "How much further?"<br />
<br />
"No far. There's nice little campsite just down the trail," says Ghost. <br />
<br />
"Where have you guys been?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"We looped over Colby Pass," she answers. "Then took the High Sierra Trail over the Divide to South American Lake and crossed over Milly's Pass to Lake Reflection."<br />
<br />
I nod ambiguously. I don't know their route, but I'm not letting on. I'd like to think I could keep up, and despite knowing better, I act as if I could. It would be so easy to forget myself, and lapse into behaving like I'm still their age and even become part of their trail fellowship. I sigh with the secure knowledge that our thoughts are private and our dignity safe.<br />
<br />
Ghost comes across the path and sits on an adjacent rock a few feet away. She is dark-eyed, fair-complected and a fit. Her hair is dirty. Her clothes stained by sweat. She conveys a very appealing, easy kindness which makes me inexplicably nervous. "May I ask a favor?" I know I will consent before I even hear the request. "Our water filter is clogged. Could we..."<br />
<br />
Without a moment's hesitation, I hand over my Sawyer filter and squeeze bag. "I've heard of these," she says and takes the filter to the creek where she squats next to Peachy. <br />
<br />
"It's been an amazing hike," says Samwise. He's been paying only half attention. His arm is draped over his eyes. "I was scared shitless crossing Mount Erickson. Ghost is fucking fearless." <br />
<br />
I see the two women aren't having much luck with the filter. I join them at the creek and filter a pint as an example. Peachy instantly masters the process. There's a distant rumble over the Divide. We all look up. A few gray-bottomed, puffy clouds are sailing by. I go back to my stuff and remove my boots for the crossing. Ghost follows. <br />
<br />
"Going to up East Lake?" she asks.<br />
<br />
I tell her my plan. "If the weather holds." And then I add, "Congrats on the PCT. That's something."<br />
<br />
"It just determination," she says. "I'm sure you could do it." <br />
<br />
It's something I want this seemingly nice woman to believe. Worse, it's something <i>I</i> want to believe, but then I'd like to believe I could learn <a href="https://youtu.be/4q0O2MXjayc?t=3m50s" target="_blank">Bach Toccatas</a> or master the <a href="http://www.feynmanlectures.caltech.edu/">Feynman Lectures</a> or become a perfect husband. These well-meaning encouragements simply temp desires that end in romanticized longing or, worse, regret. But I can see she means only to be sweet and supportive in accordance with the way of the trail, so despite everything I know I say, "I'm thinking about it." <br />
<br />
She reaches for my forearm and says, "Well then the PCT is a must!" <br />
<br />
Funny thing is, for that moment, I believe it. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">East Creek crossing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>They watch me cross Bubbs Creek without incident. I wave back as I hike up into a stand of Jaffrey Pine. The trail is nicely graded and climbs around to a route above East Creek. Mt. Bago towers over my shoulder. About half-way up to the lake, at about 9,000 feet, a bridge crosses the creek. I catch my breath. The view is grand, but for the first time I feel isolated. How nice it would be to have a bit of the cheering comradery; to share the view. I continue on. The further I climb, the faster my strength ebbs. I look up slope to gauge the crest. I spot a stand of trees as my goal. I reach the stand. There's another ridge ahead, and just as far.I lean on my sticks panting hard for several minutes before pushing on. It must be the altitude. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jSX9GTbmL6A/WFqV1wuUTtI/AAAAAAAAK-8/EIlFysC3qMAweGZfkeJh1rISI14pa0guACLcB/s1600/IMG_4473.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="370" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jSX9GTbmL6A/WFqV1wuUTtI/AAAAAAAAK-8/EIlFysC3qMAweGZfkeJh1rISI14pa0guACLcB/s640/IMG_4473.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">East Lake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>At last I make the last rise. East Lake is sparkling blue and surround by peaks. I walk to the shore. I pass two young men who are fishing. One holds up a string with three golden trout. They want to talk, but I am in no shape for chit chat. I find a flat spot and lie down.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_i1uXhr_rCw/WFqW6pu26nI/AAAAAAAAK_A/UxXu77Fvf-oGcaqgO4S_vKG4Cs7NvRwuwCLcB/s1600/IMG_4496.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_i1uXhr_rCw/WFqW6pu26nI/AAAAAAAAK_A/UxXu77Fvf-oGcaqgO4S_vKG4Cs7NvRwuwCLcB/s320/IMG_4496.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I must have dozed off. They day has slipped away, the mosquitos are starting to swarm and a bank of clouds is closing in from the east and I don't yet have a camp. I filter three liters and climb back up the trail to find a campsite away from the bugs. I settle on well-used spot beside a boulder about the size of our garage. The bugs are getting worse, the light is fading, the temperature is dropping, the clouds are moving in. It feels like rain. I need to eat. In my rush to set up camp I have trouble getting the tent right. <br />
<br />
I hear voices, or I think I do. Maybe it's a pika. I circle around the perimeter to be sure. Behind the boulder, not 50 feet away, I discover 4 men and 2 women sitting around a fire sipping wine from goblets. They are speaking French, but stop when they see me. I say hello. <br />
<br />
"Hello." says one of the men. <br />
<br />
"I didn't mean to startle," I say.<br />
<br />
There's an exchange in French. I don't understand. They are all bundled in big puffy coats, thick scarves and clean wool caps. They are four of Z-packs' Hexamid tents in the adjacent clearing. <br />
<br />
"Nice tents," I say. I point to my camp. "I camped just over there and didn't want to surprise you."<br />
<br />
"Thank you," says one of the other men. The rest start blankly at the fire. <br />
<br />
After an awkward silence, I say my goodnights and I return to my camp feeling perfectly unwelcome. I heat some water to hydrate my chicken noodle dinner. I stare into the jetboil flame thinking over the day, but the bugs are getting bad and I cannot concentrate. I take my dinner into my tent to hydrate. As I eat, it starts to drizzle. The temperature is dropping. It'll be an early night. I can just hear laughing from my neighbors.<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
I wake at eleven. I was having a nightmare. Lilalee was in an accident and I wasn't there. I doze. I dream I'm hiking in a desert looking for a PCT trail marker. I awake to find I am breathing hard and can't catch a good breath. I doze. I come home to find the house was vandalized and Lilalee has left. Everything is lost. I awake panting. I sit up. It is pitch black. I look out. It is sleeting. My mind is running from one bleak thought to another. It will be a long night.<br />
Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-51185855107489562182014-07-08T23:36:00.000-07:002016-10-30T09:18:03.735-07:00The night at Camp Moraine<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JrepwUJaAmE/WA0-TUIjcwI/AAAAAAAAKm4/q3KBXUEoo10-GHndrX4nOnzDGhWdCOJ6ACLcB/s1600/IMG_4418a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JrepwUJaAmE/WA0-TUIjcwI/AAAAAAAAKm4/q3KBXUEoo10-GHndrX4nOnzDGhWdCOJ6ACLcB/s320/IMG_4418a.JPG" width="131" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charred dragon head <br />
on Hotel Creek</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It's hard to know if it was the charred dragon head that dominated the Hotel Creek trail, the thunderheads gathering in the east, the dive-bombing mosquitos or the morning's burrito, but an ill feeling has come over me. One thing's for sure; it gets dark quickly. I hurry down to camp.<br />
<br />
The trailhead sits behind the Cedar Grove Lodge. As I step off the trail I see a sign on one of the Lodge back buildings. "Showers." A woman and two teenage girls enter. I'm already sweaty and dusty. In four days I'll be ready for a hot shower. Will they sell me one? I walk over to the Lodge to ask. <br />
<br />
The lobby doubles as small market. It's stocked with ice cream, frozen steaks, a apocalyptic supply liquor, and souvenirs like $40 T shirts and cuddly stuffed rodents. I queue up behind two ten-year olds buying ice cream with small change, a tanned young couple checking in and an older fellow with a open beer. <br />
<br />
The young couple appear to have walked off the cover a lifestyle magazine. He is shirtless, hairless and ripped. She is fit and shapely. His wears shorts with a wide waistband that spells "Made in the USA." She wears purple shorts a size smaller than skimpy and a matching crop top. Her arms are crossed. She stares vacantly into a display case with pint-sized bear carvings from China. Things are not going well. <br />
<br />
"We can always leave," he whispers. <br />
<br />
She shrugs, but says nothing. I feel for him. I suspect Lilalee's sympathies would be different.<br />
<br />
The older fellow turns me as if he is about to say something. He doesn't. He just nods an acknowledgement. <br />
<br />
"How you doing?" I ask reflexively.<br />
<br />
"I woke up on the right side of the grass," he says. "At my age, it doesn't get much better." It sounds more like a warning than a joke. <br />
<br />
The wait seems like an eternity. I try not to appear impatient. <br />
<br />
"How can I help you?" says the woman behind the counter. She's a shade past 50 and leaves no doubt who commands this outpost of humanity.<br />
<br />
"Is it possible for a backpacker buy a shower?"<br />
<br />
"$3.50 for 10 minutes," she answers. "Want one?"<br />
<br />
"Not today."<br />
<br />
She wrinkles her nose in jest as if fending off something offensive. "Sure?" <br />
<br />
I would like to impress, say something clever, but, as usual, when I want it most, my wit takes leave. When I was younger I would have offered any old stupid retort. "I don't smell anything," or "Must be your upper lip" or something equally vapid or rude. On pain of recollection, I surrender to the matter at hand. "Can I ask..I saw the Ladies', but not the Mens' showers..." <br />
<br />
"There's just the one," she says as a matter of fact. She sees I'm confused and adds, "It's kind of coed. But don't worry — No extra charge." <br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
New neighbors arrived while I was out hiking. Three RVs pulled up across the gravel not a hundred feet from my camp. Their encampment is like a midway. The awnings are out. Padded chairs and hammocks are deployed. There's a privy shower, and an a canopy over enough tables and chairs to feed a platoon. A dozen kids are screeching about the tables and trees. Two teenager girls are playing cards against two teenage boys. Several men are sipping bottles of beer. The trio of women are monitoring simmering pots on a row of Coleman stoves. One smiles at me. <br />
<br />
I'm not in a friendly state. I don't want to move my camp and the morning burrito is at the cramping point. On the bright side, if you have to be sick in the wilderness, it's best to get sick in a place with flush toilettes. <br />
<br />
I head over to the restroom. It is deluxe: three shiny metal urinals, two stalls and two sinks with a "no bathing" nailed over both sinks. The louvered light is dim. The stalls are empty. I lock myself in the corner stall and settle in feeling safe and secure. <br />
<br />
I hear two teenagers enter. They must be from the midway. I am quiet as possible.<br />
<br />
"Man, it stinks in here," says one.<br />
<br />
"Shutup," says the other.<br />
<br />
Some water runs in the sink.<br />
<br />
"How's my hair," asks one. <br />
<br />
"It's stupid," says the other. "Let me have the comb."<br />
<br />
"Julia is hot," says the first. "I mean Anna is hot too, but did you want Julia?"<br />
<br />
"Sure. Whatever," replies the other. "Let's get out of here genius."<br />
<br />
After their departure, I defiantly sponge off. There's just enough light to see the changes of my person: new blooms of body hair, recent spots on crinkling, paunchy skin. Nature's way of signalling that internal machinery is imperceptibly wearing out. I can feel it in my bones. Nothing can be done. What difference if I leave a puddle by the sinks? I think of those teenagers. It will happen to them. It will happen to their kids. The inevitability leaves me melancholy. <br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
The day fades but does not cool. A cover of broken clouds race past. The air is sticky and thick with the smoke from the midway's camp fire. I fire up the JetBoil to hydrate my chili concoction. The smell of the hydrating garlic puts me off, so I settle for just nibbling on a Picky Bar and some tea. Twilight arrives and so the mosquitos. Masses of them. They come after me like hundreds of tiny whining cordless drills. <br />
<br />
I crawl into my<a href="http://guywithbackpack.blogspot.com/2013/08/the-green-vest-people.html"> UL-1</a> and sprawl on my bag. No cowboy camping tonight. The tent is hot. I climb out to remove the fly and dive back as fast as possible, but not fast enough. I have company. I mash a half dozen black streaks into the netting. It's still hot. I am sweating. Despite all the people around I undress and lie down to read.<br />
<br />
I dream. I'm in a rodeo arena with two other kids. We're competing in the wild cow milking contest. One kid holds the head. The other kid holds the tail. I'm supposed to squirt the milk into a Dr. Pepper bottle. I can't get milk from the teat. The kids are yelling. The crowd laughing. I bolt up drenched in sweat. <br />
<br />
The moon shines like a headlight through the netting then fades behind the clouds. The mosquitos swarm like black motes in the moonlight. The midway is quiet. It's just 2 am. I must get some sleep. Why can't I 'take' some sleep? I take a nap. I take a bath. I take a shit. But, I can also give a shit. What's the sense in that? I take a pee but don't give a pee. I take a breath, but not give a breath. I can give up but not take up. Is that right? I take a hike, a swim, a lunch, a shower, a swim, a trip, a photo, a break, a turn, a look, or just take off or away... <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uzYHyQxCFyQ/WA1BOOUP0GI/AAAAAAAAKnE/-_iL27gpwhkJ_RLdb8Ef_Q3ZFkbXBXJ4ACLcB/s1600/IMG_4428.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uzYHyQxCFyQ/WA1BOOUP0GI/AAAAAAAAKnE/-_iL27gpwhkJ_RLdb8Ef_Q3ZFkbXBXJ4ACLcB/s400/IMG_4428.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2 am moonshine</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-54355498934961539362014-07-08T08:18:00.000-07:002016-10-04T09:26:39.657-07:00ORT #2, Day 2 -- Cedar GroveI am up and out early. Too early. Ann was still sacked in. I should have probably hung around for a little polite conversation, or at least left a note. I know better, but I couldn't lay around any longer. I had to get moving. At least I stripped the sheets. I hope she'll appreciate that.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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 <i>Summer</i> is in my pack. It is only 4 ounces. <br />
<br />
My food comes. I eat quickly, pass on a second cup and leave a generous tip. <br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LvMFE2ie8EQ/V-aYzQinKkI/AAAAAAAAKD0/s7UrLQ7tzJwhdFY8NcE1rqMK1wghxjQRgCLcB/s1600/DSCF0315.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LvMFE2ie8EQ/V-aYzQinKkI/AAAAAAAAKD0/s7UrLQ7tzJwhdFY8NcE1rqMK1wghxjQRgCLcB/s320/DSCF0315.JPG" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Descending into Kings Canyon</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<hr /><br />
The <i>Trails End</i> 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.<br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://guywithbackpack.blogspot.com/p/defintions.html#LNT">Leave No Trace</a> rules. They nod accordingly, sign the paperwork, lift their packs and hike east across Zumwalt Meadow. <br />
<br />
The bushy beard steps up to the counter. He requests a <a href="http://guywithbackpack.blogspot.com/p/defintions.html#walk-up">walk-up</a> for Rae Lakes. <br />
<br />
"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. <br />
<br />
"No camping till Sphinx Creek," instructs the Ranger.<br />
<br />
"I know" says Mr. Beard.<br />
<br />
"No camping within 100 feet of water."<br />
<br />
"I know," replies Mr. Beard with audible boredom. <br />
<br />
"Bury you poop six inches and carry out your toilet paper," continues the Ranger.<br />
<br />
"I don't use toilet paper," say Mr. Beard.<br />
<br />
"Carry it out if you do," responds the Ranger. "Keep all food and fragrant items in your bear canister."<br />
<br />
"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." <br />
<br />
The two men lock eyes.<br />
<br />
"The rules say you have to have a bear cannister." <br />
<br />
"I don't have one," says Mr. Beard with a matter-of-fact shrug.<br />
<br />
"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?"<br />
<br />
"My food won't fit in there," says Mr. Beard.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
I approach the kiosk and the Ranger says, "The skeeters are pretty bad today, how can I help." <br />
<br />
From what I could tell, he wasn't bothered by the bugs.<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_-Mx-QkxDyw/V-3NpSKHIFI/AAAAAAAAKEc/TLvYYgfOLMAjY0KetHyPgu1XogKR6qkeQCLcB/s1600/08-IMG_4425.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_-Mx-QkxDyw/V-3NpSKHIFI/AAAAAAAAKEc/TLvYYgfOLMAjY0KetHyPgu1XogKR6qkeQCLcB/s320/08-IMG_4425.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Late afternoon at Camp Moraine</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It's 4 miles from the trailhead to the Moraine Campground. I claim a campsite by the river as far away from the RVs as possible . I plan to cowboy camp, but I setup my tent to safeguard my claim. There isn't much shade and still plenty of daylight. Plenty of time for a hike.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
"Can a backpacker buy a shower?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"Three-fifty for ten minutes," says the lady behind the register.<br />
<br />
"I saw the ladies'," I say, "where's the men's?"<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
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. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OBdkZKSfp64/V-3N5Imk27I/AAAAAAAAKEg/Dsx1CgubpUkmwI90dXCNeV4EPP5pD7sZwCLcB/s1600/IMG_4416.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OBdkZKSfp64/V-3N5Imk27I/AAAAAAAAKEg/Dsx1CgubpUkmwI90dXCNeV4EPP5pD7sZwCLcB/s400/IMG_4416.JPG" width="600" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clouds gathering at the pass.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7dsQM6lfI9w/V-3Jxwk4OSI/AAAAAAAAKEQ/3LpZQd1kbXghWK1OuTnO2oBFMDBZZUcqgCLcB/s1600/07-IMG_4424.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7dsQM6lfI9w/V-3Jxwk4OSI/AAAAAAAAKEQ/3LpZQd1kbXghWK1OuTnO2oBFMDBZZUcqgCLcB/s400/07-IMG_4424.JPG" width="600" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The meadow atop Hat Creek Trail</td></tr>
</tbody></table><hr /><span style="font-size: x-small;">* 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.</span>Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-66848855300453083392014-07-07T08:27:00.000-07:002016-09-04T09:39:39.073-07:00ORT#2: Day -1 -- Slipping the surly bondsI have a late start. I'm nervous. I keep replaying that night at Desolation Lake. Don't want to do that again. Never, ever.<br />
<br />
I shouldn't be worried. Doc says I'm fine. I've got two full days to acclimatize. Tonight I'll crash 4,000 feet. Tomorrow at 5,000 feet. That should be good enough. It will help anyway. Besides, I've got Diamox. I ought to be safe as a kid with floaties in an empty tub. At least that's what I casually told Lilalee. <br />
<br />
I drive the usual route out of La Canada. I pop through the valley haze at about 3,000 feet. A gust buffets the car. The creosote bushes lean back and pop up like fans at a game. The sky is bright, blue and dry. The humidity is low. My skin is scratchy. More fire weather. Maybe I should be home.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x5yc77WbDrs/VyeRF_8v5HI/AAAAAAAAJD8/OESGZ1-C-oAuCZ3hGcq6J1uTcUP2Mbk-QCKgB/s1600/DSC01487.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x5yc77WbDrs/VyeRF_8v5HI/AAAAAAAAJD8/OESGZ1-C-oAuCZ3hGcq6J1uTcUP2Mbk-QCKgB/s200/DSC01487.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A constant reminder</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I've been this state all morning. It was the same all weekend. What a lousy holiday! I was in a fog; my thoughts adrift. The friends, the bar-B-Q, the fireworks — all annoying distractions. I must have gone through my gear list a hundred times. My pack felt crappy; it pulled off my shoulders like it wanted to escape. And, then this morning Lila left for work in the most perfunctory way. She seemed indifferent, like I was just going to work and not soloing over 10,000 feet. Why do we ever part that way? Partings suck. The best leaves no scratch of memory or feeling. The worst is the last — no matter what.<br />
<br />
I figure I'll mellow when I figure out what I've forgotten. That's usually it. Something is always forgotten. You always find out; it's just a matter of time. Better sooner than later. <br />
<br />
I reconstruct the list: Doors locked. Windows closed. Oven off. Cat fed. Coffee pot unplugged. Phone charged. Camera charged. Gossamer gear loaded. Hat, cannister, sticks, boots... boots... <br />
<br />
I'm a sudden blank. I can't remember. I can't fucking hike without boots. Shit! The realization pounds me in the gut and releases a burst of adrenalin and a heart-pounding panic. "Shit! Shit! Shit!" My hand hurts from pounding the wheel. Deep doubt. Spreading dread. The whole fabric of life seems about unravel. <br />
<br />
I pull into the first turnout. I recover a bit and look up Hoyt Mountain towards the indigo sky. The rock in the road cut is tilted, intruded, twisted and toppled into a frozen tumult. Rock is nothing to time and nature. I am less. It is reassuring. It's just fucking boots. <br />
<br />
I climb out and catch a gritty blast in the face. I grab the latch and pop the hatch. There they are. Glory! I am drained, then relieved, then giddy. I breath. I'm in the mountains. I'm going on a hike. <br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
I cross the summit a Mill Creek. The Mojave spreads out below. The Tehachapis loom in the shadowy distance. That's where I'll be tonight. I'll be at Anne's place. She an old friend from back at the Lab.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Vxq1_IubqG0/V3wqsB0oR6I/AAAAAAAAJEQ/AjiG6u0O4P0f3tCV4aBzmwwg35ZiKVPcwCLcB/s1600/IMG_4180.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Vxq1_IubqG0/V3wqsB0oR6I/AAAAAAAAJEQ/AjiG6u0O4P0f3tCV4aBzmwwg35ZiKVPcwCLcB/s640/IMG_4180.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mojave. Tehachapis in the distance</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Palmdale and Lancaster pass in a blur of aggressive traffic. North of town the horizons stretch east and west through a brown rippling heat. I turn west at Rosamond. What there is seems sad: desert-battered homes sitting on a big lots landscaped with the rusty detritus of abandoned ambition, walled-in urban development stuffed with cookie cutter houses on cramped lots, a windowless grade school that resembles a bunker and a strip mall with sand drifts swirling in an empty parking lot. The place seems abandoned except for the full parking lot at the Wingman Bar. Apparently fighter pilots need an early bracing. <br />
<br />
I turn north up Willow Springs Road — a route once taken by the twenty-mule teams from the Owens Valley. The road is flanked with stately new power poles linked by miles of ropey 300 kilovolt cable. I pass the picked over remains of the butte behind the Cactus Queen Mine. There was gold here once. The road curves northwest over an inconspicuous gravel track that covers the LA Aqueduct and climbs the hills where a legion of giant wind turbines turn together in a graceful hypnotic dance. The PCT crosses here. Three PCTers are munching snacks in a huddle under a lonely strippling pine. None are hitching. They must be among the very last of their class; they will be hard pressed to make Canada before the snow. <br />
<br />
I stop in Tehachapi for a couple of steaks and salad makings. It's the least I can do. Anne lives high above Bear Valley on 60 acres an hour from town. It was her plan. She's a highly-educated, carbon-free, off-the-grid, energetic woman of principle who has designed and built a solar passive house, makes pottery, drives an electric car and will plant a hundred fruit trees, raise goats and chickens. She is not a normal person.<br />
<br />
The road into Bear Valley is guarded by a check point. It's said that CIA operatives and Mafia Dons have getaways up here. There is an eerie potential here like there once was at the Ground Zero Hot Dog Stand that sat in center of the Pentagon. When it is my turn a hard-faced woman with a very-large, reinforced bust steps out. Her too-tight T'shirt has a printed yellow badge over her heart. <br />
<br />
"I'm here to visit a friend." I say. "She called in a pass."<br />
<br />
"License please," demands the lady wearing the badge.<br />
<br />
She takes my license, steps back into the kiosk and starts rifling through an accordion file. A box-shaped, rosy-faced fellow sits next to her on a high stool. I can hear him talk over the fan. <br />
<br />
"Don't tell me it's fair," he complains. "When was the last time you got the good shift? I'll tell you when. Three months ago. That's when that little slut went to LA. She's giving some on the side." <br />
<br />
The lady wearing the badge ignores him. She pulls out my yellow pass and hands it to me. "Keep this on your dashboard. We give tickets."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3wIkrwsdCvU/V8jCof0JvWI/AAAAAAAAJPY/2PaF4iILFPo61hvI292LYi8wVwiWfrJdQCLcB/s1600/DSC02304.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3wIkrwsdCvU/V8jCof0JvWI/AAAAAAAAJPY/2PaF4iILFPo61hvI292LYi8wVwiWfrJdQCLcB/s320/DSC02304.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Bear Valley is cozy. There are big houses with fenced in acreage for horses and a golf course. The road up Bear Mountain to Anne's place ascends through an oak forest to cool and shady stands of fir and pine. I pass two elk. I stop and watch from the car. They stare at me impassionately. <br />
<br />
Further on, I summit a ridge. The Central Valley spreads out for hundreds of miles below. I turn a bend and the first peaks of the Sierras come into view just across Tehachapi Pass. As I pull up to Anne's gate, she is waving from the shade of her front porch.<br />
<br />
It's great being on the road again. This is going to be a good hike. Nothing to worry about. Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-63960786028036616362014-07-02T11:19:00.000-07:002017-10-12T20:27:59.791-07:00Rendezvous with KimberlinaI'm sitting by the window in Fred 62 trying to catch sight of her as she comes up the walk. I'm wondering: why "62?" Was Fred born in '62? Is Fred from a long line of Freds? Is his last name Samarium? Maybe it's the millennial update of 42. <br />
<br />
My server refills my water. "Would you like something else while you wait sir?" <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yYmXwzhw2uY/VxujvDNKA4I/AAAAAAAAIk0/eS3j-o28t2Ydpt8INC8VhsXCKsDNQt9wQCKgB/s1600/DSC01482.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="188" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yYmXwzhw2uY/VxujvDNKA4I/AAAAAAAAIk0/eS3j-o28t2Ydpt8INC8VhsXCKsDNQt9wQCKgB/s400/DSC01482.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>I'd put him at not quite 30. An actor's good looks. Probably attends classes. Keeps head shots in his backpack. A customer might be an agent. Wish he wouldn't say sir. <br />
<br />
I want to ask him about "62," but he's looking over at the next booth where two young women with exposed, tattooed arms are discussing a screenplay. The place is crawling with millennials. Why does getting old mean feeling out of place? I decide to leave a generous tip as compensation. He can take his girlfriend to a movie.<br />
<br />
This neighborhood makes me nostalgic. I used to come here when my future was a fog. My memories are semi-conscious, surreal and bittersweet. And not just from smoking weed. Everyone seemed so smart, talented and confident. I remember the guy who sold a script to Corman and the pretty waitress who had a few dates with Cameron before he dumped her like some mildewed leftover. What happened to them? Or that brilliant coked-up Englishman with the beautiful girl friend who ran around on him? Or that groping-pervert of a screenwriter who claimed he once worked with Orson Wells and opened his house on Friday nights for free screenings of 16mm prints? What became of them? Who made it? Who went home? Who ended up on the street? <br />
<br />
Can't be different now. LA is dispassionate, cruel and indifferent. No one here at Fred 62 seems concerned. The place is buzzing with life.<br />
<br />
Kimberlina picked this place. At least that's what I call her. When she was little, our families vacationed together. I used to carry her to the river on my shoulders, let her win at checkers and show her the constellations. One summer we picked vacation names from road signs. She picked Kimberlina. Ever since then I call her that. She calls me 'Mr. Downtown.' It's our secret.<br />
<br />
She's only in town for a couple days. I wanted to take her to dinner. Tomorrow she leaves for Bridgeport. She's joining her friend, Jennifer, to section hike the PCT to Ashland. She'll be on the trail for six weeks. Jennifer will hike on to Boundary Monument. I can't wait hear about it. <br />
<br />
A few months back, Kimberlina said I should join them. I thought the trail from Sonora Pass to Tahoe would be great. As these thing go, the idea faded. It is a good thing. I would not be able to keep up; I'd be a drogue on their hike. Besides, her friend Jennifer probably despises me. (Mark up another regret.) Most of all, my JMT trip is just around the corner. I must get to higher elevations and shake off this the altitude bug-a-boo once and for all.<br />
<br />
My server keeps looking over. She's 20 minutes late. She always runs late. He probably needs the table. I wish he'd get off my case. I know she's busy. She mailed her resupply boxes today. I check my phone. No message. Maybe I better order. I'll give it five more minutes.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9mmIevXgN1s/VxqtHbBPhFI/AAAAAAAAIkc/WAOcX2U1tFwRzvHHbWNFXU01k54n33WtQCLcB/s1600/DSC01434.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9mmIevXgN1s/VxqtHbBPhFI/AAAAAAAAIkc/WAOcX2U1tFwRzvHHbWNFXU01k54n33WtQCLcB/s320/DSC01434.JPG" width="171" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">InReach two-way messanger</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I pull my new InReach Locator off my belt, buff the glass and power it up. I check the coordinates. 34° 6'16.61"N, 118°17'29.77"W. Elevation 452. Fred 62 will safe after the ice caps melt. I should tell the manager. I hate to confess, but I'm glad Lilalee made me plunk down the dough even if I never use it. <br />
<br />
I figure Kimberlina will ask me about what happened at Desolation Lake. I'd rather not get into it. I'll just tell her the dog story. The one we found lying on the trail not far from Loch Leven. It was lost, scared, hungry and exhausted. There was a tag and a phone number, but we were miles from a signal. We figured it wandered from the campgrounds. We had to walk it back down. We gave it some jerky. Duane tied a rip cord to it's collar. It didn't want to go. We coaxed as best we could. It was a struggle. Took us three hours. <br />
<br />
No one at the campground knew the dog. We put it in the car and drove it down to Bishop. If nothing else, we'd find an animal shelter. When we got low enough for a signal, Duane called the number on the tag. A voicemail answered for Mike-the-Handyman. Duane left a message and looked for an address. There was a Mike in Mesa, 10 miles to the north. We decided to try our luck. When we arrived, a neighbor recognized the dog. The dog recognized the neighbor. It was a happy reunion. The neighbor said, "That dog is Mike's life." We headed for LA with a feeling of accomplishment. <br />
<br />
An hour later Mike called. He said we were idiots, shitheads. He was climbing Mt Humphrey's. We should have just left the dog where it was. The irony begs for interpretation. I wonder what moral Kimberlina will find in the story. I always try to annoy her in this way.<br />
<br />
The server is back to fill my glass. He cocks his head as if to say, "want to order now?" I turn over my phone and answer with a pained smirk at the display. <br />
<br />
If it wasn't our goddaughter, I'd probably split. My time gets more valuable by the minute. How much to I have left anyway? But, I remember those unwanted visits from parent's friends. The ones where you needed to appear just fine because of what could filter back. It seems so innocent now considering what followed when they grew frail and it was our time to step up and take charge and never giving a second thought to the destiny that implied. Well now I've got a front row seat as my generation internalizes the words "while we can." Of course she doesn't understand any more than I did. So I don't mind waiting. I want to see her. It's worth the wait.<br />
<br />
My phone rings.<br />
<br />
"Mr. DT?"<br />
<br />
"Kimberlina?"<br />
<br />
"Will you forgive me? I can't make it. There's just too much to do."<br />
<br />
"Of course I forgive you. No problemo!" I say cheerily disguising a fresh hollow of disappointment. "I understand perfectly."<br />
<br />
"You're the best Mr. DT! You're awesome! I promise I'll message you from the trail."<br />
<br />
"No need really. Just have a great hike."<br />
<br />
"Love you Mr. DT."<br />
<br />
"Love you too."<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
Lilalee is reading on the sofa when I return. "How was your dinner? Is she excited?"<br />
<br />
"Is she ever. She must have said 'awesome' a hundred times."<br />
<br />
She closes her book. "I'm so happy for her." <br />
<br />
"Me too. Have we got anything to eat?"Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-29025008573743233682014-06-30T12:04:00.000-07:002016-04-24T08:39:06.916-07:00 ORT #2: The planThere are those that chose to walk solo and those who have no choice. I prefer walking solo. You have your thoughts and all that sky and air and rock. Nothing wrong with solo: unless it gets in the way. I'm not letting that happen. <br />
<br />
I get out the maps. I need to acclimatize. That means an ascent from the West. The east slope is too steep. One day you're at 4k, the next at ninety-five hundred. A couple days should do. My old friend Ann from Space System labs said she would let me crash at her place in Bear Valley Springs. That's about 4K. If camped at Kings Canyon that would put me at fifty-five. That should do it. From Kings Canyon, I could hike up Paradise Valley to the JMT and do the Rae Lakes loop. My heart quickens. I've dreamed of that hike.<br />
<br />
I check the Sequoia National Park website for available permits. No cigar. The Paradise Valley hike is booked till Christmas. However, the reverse route up Bubbs Creek is happening — openings out the wazoo. <br />
<br />
Back to the maps. The trail parallels Bubbs Creek up to Vidette Meadow. It' a big climb out of the Kennedy Meadow, then a long gradual uphill. I could camp at Junction Meadow. Better yet, I could spend the first night up at East Lake. From there I could hop on the JMT, cross Glenn Pass to the Rae Lakes and crash at Arrowhead Lake. Next night at Woods Creek. 4 glorious days 3 nights. That'll mean fifteen-mile days. Strenuous, but I can manage it. I could even do an extra night if needed.<br />
<br />
<iframe height="480" src="https://www.google.com/maps/d/embed?mid=zqxzPakzg4ZQ.kDadY2XD7wOY" width="640"></iframe><br />
<br />
<hr>I made spaghetti and salad for dinner. Lilalee loves my spaghetti. I put on some baroque tunes and pour wine for dinner. I can't bring myself to light any candles.<br />
<br />
"I've got the plan for my next hike."<br />
<br />
Lilalee's fork traces an arc back down to the plate. "When?"<br />
<br />
"Couple weeks. Summer's getting away. I've got to be ready for the JMT in less than 10 weeks."<br />
<br />
"I see," she says. "Who are you going with?"<br />
<br />
"I'm gonna solo."<br />
<br />
She sits up and crosses her arms. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean it was a good thing you were with Duane last time. What about Duane?"<br />
<br />
"What about him?"<br />
<br />
"Can he go? Did you ask him?"<br />
<br />
The first thing that comes to mind is that I would never ask. I can't bear to think of putting him through that again. Of course that explanation would only start an argument. Instead, I take the path of least resistance. "Look, he's got a job. He's got a family. There's no need to worry. There's lots of people up there."<br />
<br />
"But you'll be camping alone?"<br />
<br />
"Probably."<br />
<br />
"And if something happens?"<br />
<br />
Without thinking I answer, "I can get one of those SOS satellite trackers. If something happens, I can just push a button. Everything will be fine."<br />
<br />
In the sternest possible tones she says, "You wouldn't shit me about this because if you're shitting me I will kill you."<br />
<br />
"If I didn't have one, you might not have to."<br />
<br />
The rest of dinner is pretty quiet. But I just keep thinking that I've just promised to plunk down a lot of money for something I don't really need. Things like that take away my appetite.<br />
<br />
<hr><span style="font-size: small;"><sup>* </sup>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.</span>Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-41919657257512307942014-06-26T08:24:00.000-07:002023-12-18T20:10:18.479-08:00Magic in a bottleMs. Rodriguez, LVN, scrapes and bangs her mouse determined to get the cursor in next field of my medical record. "On a scale of one-to-ten, what's your pain level?" <br />
<br />
A libidinal feeling of contempt wells up. I have no pain. I don't want to be here. I have nothing personal against against Ms Rodriguez. I'm sure she's a perfectly decent,normal person who, like the rest of us, will ignore her doctor's advice to eat tasteless food in small quantities. And, she's likely a good mom — her two kids are propped up on either side of her monitor like a couple pagan gods. But, I do find her extra-long pink fingernails offensive; not because I don't like glitter, but because she types about a word an hour and she's making me answer irrelevant questions because everyone has to. <br />
<br />
"What about zero? I ask. "You know that zero came into common use about a thousand years. Can I say zero?" <br />
<br />
Without taking her eyes off the monitor she says, "I'll just put in 1." <br />
<br />
I wouldn't be here at all except that, against my fervent advice, Lilalee invited Bob, Pattie and the Swonks over for Sunday burgers. Way back, when we all were just starting out, we lived on the same block. Swonk was in med school, Siobahn free-lanced for <i>LA Weekly</i> and the <i>Berkeley Barb</i>, Bob worked on sit-coms and Pattie was just finishing her practicum. We were close back then. We were a proud and modestly ambitious group brought together by fate. We had grand plans, bright ideas and talked of important things. But now, whenever we get together, Swonk and Pattie talk shop and the conversation dwells on ailment and disease. <br />
<br />
"Remember Mary Ellen," says Pattie who is prone to speak in imperatives. Mary Ellen also lived on our block, but she married rich and moved away. "Her husband had a TIA. Partial paralysis and loss of speech. Remember his name?" <br />
<br />
"Henry." say Siobahn with a sympathetic tisk. Siobahn never forgets. "Poor Mary Ellen."<br />
<br />
"Clopidogrel?" asks Swonk.<br />
<br />
"Didn't ask." answers Pattie.<br />
<br />
Lilalee interrupts. "What do you guys know about altitude sickness?"<br />
<br />
Suddenly, I'm the center of attention. They all know why she asks. No doubt she been talking to Siobahn.<br />
<br />
"What happened?" asks Swonk.<br />
<br />
I shrug. "I had one bad night." <br />
<br />
Lilalee chimes in, "He won't go see the doctor."<br />
<br />
I'd just rather forget the following interrogative and subsequent lavish and irritating concern for my well being. Why must everyone be worried? It's not like I've never been to 11,000 feet. One time I have a problem. What's the big deal? I tried to explain it was probably just something I ate. I succeed only in persuading them all that I am a pig-headed idiot. So rather than suffer their ridicule, I agree to get my lungs checked. <br />
<br />
<hr><br />
I've been sitting in the examine room for nearly-an-hour. Between bouts of imagined mistreatment, I study the lackluster genitalia on the glossy anatomical charts, flex the plastic spine model and estimate the number of cotton balls and tongue depressors in each jar. I am just about dump the cotton balls to confirm my estimate when there's a knock. <br />
<br />
The man who enters has to duck and turn to get through the door. He must be seven foot and a burly three-hundred pounds. His lab coat is 3-sizes too small. He could pick me up with one hand. He has a swarthy, pitted complexion, a full-head of glossy hair and the radiant smile of someone who is used to having people completely in their power. "I'm Dr. Soso. I'll be your doctor today. Sorry for the wait. There was a little mix up." <br />
<br />
Ms. Rodrigues flashes to mind. My opinion of her changes dramatically. I am gratified that my mistrust of some people is confirmed.<br />
<br />
"What can I do for you today?" <br />
<br />
"I think I need to get my lungs checked. I might have had altitude illness."<br />
<br />
"Take off your shirt," he says. "Tell me more."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ijabMaH2fA4/Vv_kal3PBRI/AAAAAAAAIj4/x8lefV_7ZHA3liufZ626gEphZgk8iAYLg/s1600/DSC01424a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="269" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ijabMaH2fA4/Vv_kal3PBRI/AAAAAAAAIj4/x8lefV_7ZHA3liufZ626gEphZgk8iAYLg/s320/DSC01424a.jpg" width="300" /></a>I tell him more. He listens to my chest. Then he walks over to the examine-room computer and starts typing. "Your lungs are fine," he says. "I'm going to give you Diamox. One pill; twice a day. Start dosing two days before hiking." As I dress he tells me try it at home first to test for side effects. <br />
<br />
"That's it?"<br />
<br />
"That's it. You're in good shape for someone your age." He reaches for the door. "And by the way, I recommend spending a night at elevation before hiking." <br />
<br />
"Thanks," I say without adding, 'for stating the obvious' because, thanks to Ms. Rodriguez, I now know that people around here just don't seem to have a sense of humor. <br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
When Lilalee gets home, my maps are spread out on the kitchen table. I greet her a big hug and an affectionate kiss. <br />
<br />
"Aren't we in a fine mood," she says rubbing against me. "Let's make this a habit." Then she sees the maps. "What did the doctor say?<br />
<br />
"I got a clean bill of health."<br />
<br />
"Are you sure?" she asks with practised doubt.<br />
<br />
"Yea. He gave me pills." I hand them to her. <br />
<br />
She examines them closely and hands them back. "And you just have to take a pill?"<br />
<br />
I shrug. "It's magic."<br />
<br />
She sighs wistfully, "Too bad there's not a pill for everything." <br />
Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-83852774570160752492014-06-20T07:01:00.000-07:002016-04-13T22:21:00.518-07:00ORT#1: Dawn, Day 2 -- Desolation LakeA gust rattles the tent. I must have dozed off. The light is breaking. The night is finally over. I have been here forever. I am exhausted. I'm not panting. I am overwhelmed by the thought of the crossing the col.<br />
<br />
There's a lull. I can hear Duane stir in his bivvy. He'll be up soon. What will I tell him?<br />
<br />
I slide out of the bag and quickly pull on all my layers. I pull on my boots, but don't lace up. I'm too wobbly; my hands are numb. Coffee should help. I set up the stove against the kitchen slab, out of the wind.<br />
<br />
Now the hard part: opening a BV450 bear cannister on a cold morning with numb fingers. You must depress two inflexible release tabs and turn the lid. A skill that requires coordination and strength which both happen to be at a low ebb. <br />
<br />
I grip the cannister tight between my thighs, push the tabs with all my might and turn. No luck. My nylon pants are as slippery as a bearing race and the cannister just slides round. In short order I'm exhausted and sucking wind. <br />
<br />
Thanks to the many hours I spent surfing the net, I'm <a href="https://youtu.be/QyEbLfL_lSU">prepared.</a> If you slide a credit card between the stop tab and the release tab, the lid will come free by merely applying every last ounce of strength into this simple three-point maneuver: with the badge in inserted against the tabs, press the canister into the ground, squeeze it between your knees and turn the lid. I carry an old security badge for just this occasion. (I should have returned it to Space System Labs, but that's another story.) After many experiments with different alternatives, I have long since settled on the security badge which has just the right combination of durability and flexibility. <br />
<br />
I kneel over the canister, place the badge against the tabs and push and turn for all I'm worth. The lid comes free, but the badge flies in the air and is carried away by a sudden gust. I hurry after it only to watch it disappear down a 1,000 year old fissure in the kitchen slab. <br />
<br />
I am seized by a panic. I press my cheek against the icy slab and jam hand as far as it will go down the crack. I just touch the badge only to see it slip in deeper. I try to force my hand farther; just to the point of nearly getting stuck. The realization is horrifying. I am overcome by indecision. What to do? I can't leave it here. What about leave-no-trace? What if some of those badge numbers show up on the internet? It's as if all the forces of nature have arrayed against me for merely wanting coffee. <br />
<br />
Duane comes up behind. "So, what's up?"<br />
<br />
I pull my hand from the fissure. "I'm making coffee."<br />
<br />
"I can see that," he says. "How do you feel?"<br />
<br />
I sit up and take a few unsatisfying breaths. Off to the west Pilot Knob is just visible in the grey light. Our route lies across the lake outlet just over a rise that is white with ice. I slide off the slab and take a few unsteady steps. I imagine crossing the col, but in my present state I couldn't even make it to the outlet. I shrug. <br />
<br />
Duane says nothing. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SW-_ReAHCSg/Vv1nAj6hGZI/AAAAAAAAIeA/B4mIyjkGdaQByvQdt_qzYAMW8zNKwmcvQ/s1600/PiutePass%2BJune%2B2014%2B030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SW-_ReAHCSg/Vv1nAj6hGZI/AAAAAAAAIeA/B4mIyjkGdaQByvQdt_qzYAMW8zNKwmcvQ/s400/PiutePass%2BJune%2B2014%2B030.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise over Mount Humphries<br />
<i style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10.56px; line-height: 14.784px;">Photo by Duane Bindschadler</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>I pace a bit hoping to find my legs. The high rim of Mount Humphrey glows with the day's first rays. "Maybe coffee will help."<br />
<br />
"OK," he says reassuringly. "Let's eat. We'll talk later."<br />
<br />
I can't quite get organized. I fumble making breakfast. Nothing seems easy. By the time I choked down my oatmeal, Duane has packed most of his gear. He starts deflating his Neoair and I sit on nearby rock. <br />
<br />
"Well?" <br />
<br />
"I have to go down."<br />
<br />
"I know," he says.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry."<br />
<br />
"Not as sorry as you would be," he replies. <br />
<br />
"It's probably the altitude," I explain.<br />
<br />
"Probably," he says with that touch of irony which removes any doubt.<br />
<br />
"But, I've been here before," I object. "I <i>shouldn't</i> be sick."<br />
<br />
He shrugs. "So it goes." He slips the Neoair the compression bag. "Let's get going. I'm worried about getting you over the pass."<br />
<br />
I pack up, wondering if I've been reading the wrong book — next time leave Vonnegut at home. <br />
Meanwhile, Duane attaches a piece of duct tape to his long handled spoon and fishes out my security badge. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_LUvuOG7Qmc/Vv7NSijZZ7I/AAAAAAAAIec/HWxMJmrmXZIyempTVTIbCJokD8zCJV9QQ/s1600/PiutePass%2BJune%2B2014%2B035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_LUvuOG7Qmc/Vv7NSijZZ7I/AAAAAAAAIec/HWxMJmrmXZIyempTVTIbCJokD8zCJV9QQ/s400/PiutePass%2BJune%2B2014%2B035.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', trebuchet, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10.56px; line-height: 14.784px;">Photo by Duane Bindschadler</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
From that moment, things look up. The sun is warming. The sky a cloudless blue. The air cleansing. I feel better with every step down. At Summit Lake, I am completely right and ascend the pass without a the slightest symptom. By the time we pass Loch Leven, I feel like we shouldn't be leaving; I gave up too quickly. I am seriously tempted to suggest that we turn back and try again.<br />
<br />
Just then I see a small, solitary lenticular cloud hovering just over the peak of Blanco Mountain 40 miles to the east. It's oval, yellow-gray with a rose-colored limb. It seems odd and out of place. I stop to study it.<br />
<br />
"You okay?" asks Duane with a now-tired note of concern.<br />
<br />
I point my stick to Blanco Mountain. Duane turns to look. But, in that moment the cloud has gone. Just like that. Just like it was nothing. Or was it? "Yea. Fine. Forget it." But I'm not sure. <br />
<br />
Duane jabs his stick emphatically and heads off at quicker pace. "I'll feel better when we have you in Bishop."<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
We don't get a cell signal until we're back in town. I am preparing to call Lilalee to let her know I'll be home tonight. I'm not sure what to say to keep her from worrying. One thing's for sure, I doubt Duane will want me as a hiking partner. Who could blame him?Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381780605545875395.post-47110717978009564042014-06-20T03:00:00.000-07:002016-04-13T22:21:00.510-07:00ORT#1: Earliest hours, Day 2 -- Desolation Lake<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">3:00 am</span><br />
Been awake since 1:00. I dreamt that my code has destroyed a spacecraft and that investigative team is getting close. I dreamt that I chase a mangy coyote that has our cat. I dreamt we are escaping from an earthquake and that Lilalee is lost. I stay awake so as not to dream. <br />
<br />
Awake I pant like I've just run the 440 for the first time since I was 18. My heart pounds hard and erratic. I shiver and sweat by turns. No position is comfortable. I shift on the pad. It is narrow and the ground is ice-cold to the touch. I've taken 400 milligrams of Motrin and drank nearly a liter of water.<br />
<br />
I decide to go outside and pee. The wind has slackened. The waning gibbous moon sets in the west. All around the mountains are illuminated and colorless. The lake is black and despairing. I stumble and land hard on my arm. There will be a knotty bruise. I dust off. Something is wrong. It can't be the altitude. There's been no headache. No nausea. Maybe it's a flu or maybe my heart. I've got to get some rest or I won't be able to hike tomorrow. I've got to get some sleep.<br />
<br />
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Kenny Meyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04238562164627631051noreply@blogger.com