The last day

The 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.

I wasn't so serene when we arrived in Mammoth. We spent two days acclimatizing. Maybe I wasn't used to the altitude. Maybe it was pre-hike nerves. Maybe it was the tourist prices, culinary pretensions and obsequious desk clerks. They rile me up. But, this was Lilalee's first stay in Mammoth and she wasn't letting my neurosis spoil her vacation. She was determined to enjoy the town. She forbid me to disparage any bourgeois pleasure or indulge in 'reverse snobbery.' I followed her into a hundreds of galleries and shops. She bought a new blouse and a vintage dress. I bought a 4-gram, key-chain thermometer. We took the scenic gondola ride up Mammoth Mountain for fifty bucks. We drank wine and nibbled tapenade at the Westin. Later, we had a very expensive Italian dinner. She wore her new blouse and looked very pretty. We held hands and sat close. All the while, the hike was never far from my thoughts. I wonder if they were for her. I know how she feels about it. We didn't talk about it. Why break the spell?

A paunchy, thick-armed fellow about my age with a steaming plate of eggs, bacon and pancakes takes a seat at the next table. He does not bother to pull out the chair. In one graceful move, he swings his leg over the chair back, lifts a forkful of egg from the descending plate and lands both his butt and his plate at the same, perfectly timed, instant. The young woman who served my coffee follows him with a syrup dispenser, a cup and a carafe of coffee. "Anything else Gus?"

Gus waits for the pour and says, "I'm good." He stirs in two sugars and slurps with an murmur of satisfaction. Despite the sub-40-degree chill, he seems comfy in a short-sleeve polyester shirt and dungarees.

"You must be a regular," I say meaning to be polite, but not intending to start a conversation.

"You could say that," he replies. "I drive up here from Stockton every other day. Weekends and holidays; rain or shine." He shovels in a few heaping forkfuls and then continues. "It's three hours, give or take. We have a contract with Delaware North. I deliver most of the food for here and Tuolumne. Sundries too."

"Got to be an early start."

"Early to bed; early to rise."

"You must miss the night life."

"In Stockton? Unless your big on bowling tournaments, there's not much to miss. Anyway, I've done my share of socializing." He laughs to himself. "Too much of my share. Now, I'd just assume keep my own hours and my own house. No need to argue with anyone. No need to compromise. Keeps it simple."

As he continues to eat, I want to ask if he's lonely, but think better of it and say nothing. We sit in silence. I lean back and stare up the road. He wipes up the last of of the maple syrup with his finger. and takes his plate inside. He returns with the coffee pot. "Want a refill? We aim to please here in Yosemite. Hope your a good tipper. Where you from?"

I explain that I'm retired, that I'm here with my wife and that we're from Los Angeles.

"I used to live in LA. Grew up in Lakeood. Used to be a CPA. Used to be married," he says. "After the wife got custody, I got a commercial license and have been driving ever since. I've driven this route for fifteen years. Know it like the back of my hand."

"Is it nice being up here all the time? Ever get in a little hiking?"

"Me? Hike? I'd rather go to church. At least you get someplace to sit. Besides," he says, "I'd rather watch football or play some golf when it's not too hot. No knock on you hikers, but some of your people off their noodle. Talk to the search and rescue people if you want to hear some stupid shit. And what with these college kids living like hobos. Always on the move. Broke. Eating out dumpsters. It's nuts.
But hell, I'm not judging. It gives me a job. I guess we all do what we gotta do." He emphasizes that point with a two-hand slap of the table and rises to his feet. "Have a good one mister."

I don't think you can fully appreciate the rumble of the diesel, the stench of the exhause, the backup safety beeping, or the rising pitch of the gears until you hear it in the stillness of the wilderness. It overwhelms the rest. But only briefly. It is the caviling of stellar jays and chatter of crows, the smoke from a campfire and the sun sparkling through the trees that endure. This is just another day.

---

I pull the cabin door. It squeals like a cat picking a fight. "Go away," she says and pulls the pillow over her head. "It's cold. I'm on vacation. Go for a walk."

I stroll up the road to the highway. It's an easy mile up a zero grade through the woods and past two meadows. The day is cloudless. My breath still condenses. A fog hangs on the meadow. There are still traces of paintbrush, penstemon and monkeyflower. I hear the wik-wik a red-shafted flicker. Then some drumming. I walk in. Stealthy. I see the shadow on a pitted truck. It creeps around. A hummingbird dives with a loud screech not twenty feet ahead. I hear a branch snap. A hundred feet beyond, a bear wanders out of the trees. I freeze. It pauses and sniffs at the air. My heart pounds. Its nose is black and moist. Its fur is dark brown and glistens. It's probably four-feet high at the hind quarter. It does not seem to notice me; or it doesn't care. But then it takes a few step in my direction and starts digging by a fallen log. I back away to the road to watch, wishing I'd had my camera.

---

Lilalee waves me over to the veranda. She's shares a table with a blue-eyed, freckled red-head, maybe fifty, with a pony tail pulled through a baseball cap. Her shorts, shirt and boots are REI. Their breakfast dishes have been pushed aside. I extend a handshake and introduce myself. "Tanya," she says. Her grip is very firm.

"I just saw a bear. In the meadow. Not a hundred feet away."

"That's pretty close," says Tanya with a nod and discerning frown.

"He's fearless," says Lilalee to Tanya and turns to me. "I told her you leave for the JMT tomorrow."

"I'm always a bit jittery before a big hike," says Tanya.

I shrug, but the suggestion releases a pulse of anxiety.

"Next year she's hiking the PCT with her daughter," says Lilalee.

"Intrepid," I say. "No doubt the old man can't keep up."

"No doubt," replies Tanya with a shrug. "He died in February."

There's an awkward silence. Lilalee shakes her head to assure me that I'm no master of tact. I apologize.

"It's fine," says Tanya. "The bastard basically drank himself to death. On the bright side, he left us with a cozy fortune and we were in love once."

"I adore this woman," says Lilalee putting a hand on Tanya's arm.

"Lilalee is not so lucky," I quip. "I don't drink much and I'm not leaving her a fortune." Neither woman appreciates the wit, and I immediately doubt there was any. "Do you hike much?" I ask moving on to a better topic.

Tanya nods. "I grew up hiking. My Dad was a geologist. My daughter has been hiking since she was three. She did the AT last year. You'll probably meet her. She's been hiking up Tuolumne Canyon with her brand-new boy friend. They'll be here tonight."

"You're meeting him for the first time?" I ask.

"You're being nosy," says Lilalee.

Tanya is undeterred. "First time OK. She picked this one up in law school. Tonight it's pajamas and separate bunks." With a sardonic smile she adds, "I brought him a pair just in case. Want to see?"

We laugh. I'm remember meeting LilaLee's parents. It was surreal. We had dinner. It was as if we had just been seated at a table inches away from another couple and no one wanted to be overhead except in very bland conversation. According to Lilalee it went well, but I never really knew what they thought of me, except perhaps that I was odd but not evil. I suspect that if Tanya's daughter is pretty as her mother, she'll have many suitors. This new boy friend won't have it so easy. He will need his 'A' game to survive. I'm not finding fault. There's no shortage of disappointment, divorce and death down the road. If I were Tanya, I'd be sure that someone kicked the tires plenty hard. Better to make the trip with a good car.

"We're going to Lukens Lake," says Lilalee to Tanya. "Want to join us?" She doesn't ask me, because she knows I won't mind. I never have and never would. You might think that we should be spending some special 'together' time before tomorrow. We won't see each other for a while. But somehow it seems better not to make a special 'to-do' of it. Tomorrow does seem a bit overwhelming.

I check my watch. In twenty-four hours we meet Duane at the Curry Village Pavilion. In twenty-seven hours we step off the Mono Meadow Trailhead. I'm glad for the day hike. Tomorrow will come one way or another.

En route to Lukens Lake 

The quill hat

The 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.

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.

Bristle Cone Pine

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.

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.

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.

"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."

"Me?"

"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.

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.

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.

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.

---

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.

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.

"If you stay for the music, there's a twelve dollar cover," she says. "No exceptions."

"Is it OK to just have a beer?"

"The band starts in an hour. What kind?"

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.

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?"

"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."

The man sitting closest to me grabs their pitcher and says, "You fellas were pretty clever," as he refills the teller's mug.

"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."

"Tell the rest of it," says the man with the bushy mustache.

"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.

"You're not supposed to be laughing at your own stories," taunts the mustachioed fellow. "Get to the punch-line."

"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."

All three men then nodded and raised their mugs in a silent toast.

"I can only hope all those kids hiking up there are smarter than we were," says the mustachioed man.

"I doubt it," says the guy closest to me.

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?"

---

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.

The die is cast

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.

"You double counted that one," says Duane pointing to the freeze-bag, oatmeal-raisin breakfasts. "It belongs in the VVR bucket."

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.

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 ESTA 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 YARTS 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.

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.

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.

"That's it," says Duane. "I'm jazzed."

"Except for the hike, I guess were done," I say meaning to joke but sounding dire.

He taken aback. "Something wrong?"

"Not really. But... what if there's a snag. What if you twist an ankle or I get sick again?"

"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."

"But what if....Shouldn't we make an agreement?"

Duane nods. "What do you have in mind?"

"If one of us has to bail, the other gets to continue."

"OK," he says reflectively, "But we have to talk first. We have to agree."

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.

---

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.

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.

"I know this sounds complicated. I'm sure it will work."

"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!"

"This shouldn't be a surprise," I reply self-righteously knowing full well it's going to make things worse and not caring.

She pushes out from the table and stands over me. "What about Labor Day weekend? Weren't we supposed to do something?"

"I don't know. Call the Swonks. Siobahn always has something going."

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."

---

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.

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.

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.

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.

I hear her car in the drive. I go to meet her at the door. To my relief and joy she embraces me.

"I've been thinking," she says. "What if I go with you?"

"On the hike?"

"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?"

"There may not be any rooms."

"You know me. I'll find the places. I'll find nice places. We'll have fun."

"It could be expensive."

"Are we going to start up again?" She replies with a playful threat. But it could go either way.

"So you'll drop Duane and me off at the trail head and pick us up at Lone Pine?"

"Whatever you want."

I don't know much, but I know I don't deserve my luck.

---

The Plan

The smell of the mountains in the morning

We are sitting in one the deflated booths by the window. Swonk stares out at the heat and traffic. His mind is elsewhere. I draw a ketchup spiral with a last soggy fry. We've been coming to the Astro since back when we drank coffee past midnight and were animated by each other's ideas.

I called Swonk because I've been glum since East Lake. Lilalee had suggested it. I've been telling him about that awful night. I'm about to tell him how worried I was about getting caught in lightening up on Glenn Pass and about the mosquito cloud up in Vidette Meadow.

"Hold it." he says in a tone usually reserved for patients. "You woke up and couldn't catch a breath?"

"Yea. Sorta..."

"And you were at niney-six hundred?"

"Yea, but I was acclimated."

He leans in. Very insistent. "Bullshit."

"I took Diamox."

"You're a bone head." He starts emphasizing each syllable with jab at the table. "You weren't acclimated. You had some bad altitude shit. You could die."

"Come on. It wasn't that bad."

"You're being a stubborn ass," he says.

"This is pissing me off."

He smirks. "Go ahead. Fill your lungs with plasma, see if anyone gives a shit," He picks up the tab and hands it to me. "I know it's my turn, but why don't you get this. That way, if you don't survive, we'll be even."

---

It's hot. It's smoggy. The traffic is at a standstill. I am too agitated to listen to the radio or head home. Things are coming apart. It's not just Swonk. It's all of us. The bonds that held us together are dissolving. Distance, grand kids, divorce, indulgence, compulsion, unchecked self-righteousness, over-powering grief, illness and infirmity. We don't need AARP and the Neptune Society to remind us that the store of opportunity has a limited stock. Who asked them to send their monthly reminders? Or bucket lists. Why are people so eager to blithely recite something so morbid? Can't they just get on with it? Must we hear about their selfish desires and selfless charities? Where's the perspective? Are we so important? If you ask me they could all use a trip to the Sierras. I could use one.

I decide to head over to REI. I could get that EXPED air pillow. Only 1.5 ounces. They might have one in stock. The very thought is cheering.

---

It's mid summer hiking season. The lot is full; the check-out line wraps around past the back packs; there's a palpable stir of excitement. It's contagious. My legs feel strong.

I head over to the gadget aisles and slide around a dad and two adolescent sons who are studying the Mountain House dinners.

"I want Shepard Pie," says one of the boys.

"I'd stick with the Alfredo," warns the dad.

"It makes me puke," says the other boy.

I turn up the next aisle. The titanium pots catch my eye. I try not to crowd two college-age girls who are intently studying a GSI Halulite cookset.

"It's expensive," says one.

"But we'll share," says the other.

"I hope you won't mind me interrupting," I say, "but the plastic on that fold-up handle will melt."

The girls trade looks. "Thank you," says the other, making it clear I should go away.

I decide to move along to the hydration kits. A very handsome millennial couple and green-vest REI associate are huddled around a smart phone at the end of the aisle. He is long-haired and bearded. Her limbs are tattooed and unshaven. They are tanned, muscular, self-assured and could be mistaken for cultists. I stop in hearing distance and pretend to examine a 2-liter Platy bottle.

"This is a view of Matterhorn Canyon from Horse Creek Pass." she says. "Here's where we camped at Miller Lake."

"Wow. Never been there," says the associate.

"It's amazing. Here's a view down from the switchbacks going up Baxter Pass.," she adds.

They stare silently in the phone. I try to steal a look without seeming to intrude. They don't notice.

"Next week we're going to section from Sonora to Tahoe," he says.

"I love that part of the PCT. Really..." she insists, "you've got to see it."

1 1/4 ounces of inspiration  

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.

I stand in line behind a grizzled bald guy about my age; a humbling reminder of my own appearance. We nod. He has a couple dozen Cliff bars in his basket.

"Got a trip planned?" I ask.

"Yea," he says. "My wife and I are starting the JMT next week."

"No kidding?"

"No kidding."

"Happy Isles?"

"Yea. It's our third time. We love it," he says.

The line advances.

"What about you?" he asks.

"Matterhorn Canyon," I reply.

"I've heard it's amazing," he says.

---

I am making a stew for dinner. Lilalee loves my stew. The secret is the carrots. But I'll never tell.

"Hello," she says wearily as she enters the front door. She drops her bag on the table. "I smell dinner. Thank god. I'm starving"

"Tough day?"

"The usual crap, meetings, meeting, meetings," she says. "How's Swonk?"

"Same ol', same ol'. He's good. Siobahn's good. Everyone's good."

"What did you guys talk about?"

"The usual. Not much."

"We should all get together." She says and grabs the spoon to sample the pot. "Mmmm. Delicious. Nice to see you in a good mood."

"I got the permit for my next hike."

The creases around her eyes deepen. "Where you going? "

"A place called Matterhorn Creek. Just north of Yosemite. I'm leaving Saturday. That OK?"

"Doesn't really matter what I say, does it?"

"Of course it does."

But we both know it doesn't which puts a damper on dinner. But I don't mind, I can almost smell the mountains.

Plan for the Matterhorn Creek hike

Rendezvous with Kimberlina

I'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.

My server refills my water. "Would you like something else while you wait sir?"

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

InReach two-way messanger

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

My phone rings.

"Mr. DT?"

"Kimberlina?"

"Will you forgive me? I can't make it. There's just too much to do."

"Of course I forgive you. No problemo!" I say cheerily disguising a fresh hollow of disappointment. "I understand perfectly."

"You're the best Mr. DT! You're awesome! I promise I'll message you from the trail."

"No need really. Just have a great hike."

"Love you Mr. DT."

"Love you too."

---

Lilalee is reading on the sofa when I return. "How was your dinner? Is she excited?"

"Is she ever. She must have said 'awesome' a hundred times."

She closes her book. "I'm so happy for her."

"Me too. Have we got anything to eat?"

ORT #2: The plan

There 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.

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.

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.

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.

---

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.

"I've got the plan for my next hike."

Lilalee's fork traces an arc back down to the plate. "When?"

"Couple weeks. Summer's getting away. I've got to be ready for the JMT in less than 10 weeks."

"I see," she says. "Who are you going with?"

"I'm gonna solo."

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?"

"What about him?"

"Can he go? Did you ask him?"

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."

"But you'll be camping alone?"

"Probably."

"And if something happens?"

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."

In the sternest possible tones she says, "You wouldn't shit me about this because if you're shitting me I will kill you."

"If I didn't have one, you might not have to."

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.

---

^* 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.

Magic in a bottle

Ms. 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?"

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.

"What about zero? I ask. "You know that zero came into common use about a thousand years. Can I say zero?"

Without taking her eyes off the monitor she says, "I'll just put in 1."

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 LA Weekly and the Berkeley Barb, 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.

"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?"

"Henry." say Siobahn with a sympathetic tisk. Siobahn never forgets. "Poor Mary Ellen."

"Clopidogrel?" asks Swonk.

"Didn't ask." answers Pattie.

Lilalee interrupts. "What do you guys know about altitude sickness?"

Suddenly, I'm the center of attention. They all know why she asks. No doubt she been talking to Siobahn.

"What happened?" asks Swonk.

I shrug. "I had one bad night."

Lilalee chimes in, "He won't go see the doctor."

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.

---

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.

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."

Ms. Rodrigues flashes to mind. My opinion of her changes dramatically. I am gratified that my mistrust of some people is confirmed.

"What can I do for you today?"

"I think I need to get my lungs checked. I might have had altitude illness."

"Take off your shirt," he says. "Tell me more."

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.

"That's it?"

"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."

"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.

---

When Lilalee gets home, my maps are spread out on the kitchen table. I greet her a big hug and an affectionate kiss.

"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?

"I got a clean bill of health."

"Are you sure?" she asks with practised doubt.

"Yea. He gave me pills." I hand them to her.

She examines them closely and hands them back. "And you just have to take a pill?"

I shrug. "It's magic."

She sighs wistfully, "Too bad there's not a pill for everything."

ORT #1: The plan

I feel strong. I can knock off the morning training hike without needing a transfusion: 30 pounds, 800 up, 800 down, 700 up, 700 down, 800 up and 800 down. My feet and hands are now calloused in the right places. I'm ready. Not JMT ready, but ready.

Don't get me wrong. These morning hikes are despicable. But to my astonishment, there's been a few unexpected pleasures.

For example, I don't grunt when I get off the sofa. I've been sleeping through the night for the first time since I can remember. And, while I've been eating like a glutton, friends are asking if I've lost weight. It's been such a joy saying, "I don't know," when I know perfectly well. But, best of all is this new respect at REI. I noticed it when I went to renew my stash of Picky Bars. Even that snarky bastard in the backpack section deigned to chit-chat. Believe me, I was standing tall in the checkout line.

Duane and I have been talking all week. Our plan has gelled. Come this time next Wednesday, we'll be hiking up Piute Pass on my first JMT ORT^*. I can barely contain myself.

We'll meet at our place. I'll drive up. We'll stop in Lone Pine for lunch at the Alabama Hills Cafe for one of the best burgers on the planet. After lunch we drive up to Bishop to pick up our permits. Then we'll head into the Sierras for North Lake where we'll camp at 9,350. We should arrive at North Lake early enough for a day hike up to Lower Lamarack Lake. Hike high, sleep low they say, but neither of us is prone to altitude sickenss. That night Duane has promised to cook a fancy dinner. He's hinted at canned chili. We'll climb Piute Pass the next morning.

Our first day is a modest 8-miler up to Desolation Lake. The next day we'll climb over the col near Pilot's Knob and find a camp site near Elba Lake. That'll also be a short day. I'll probably take a day hike over to Steelhead Lake. On day three we hike down to French Canyon and camp near the North Lake trail junction. On day four we have a 10-miler out.

I'm sure to forget something, which is fine, so long as I don't forget to have fun.

---

^* 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.

No cheese please. No pescado either.

I'm standing in front of 40 bags of freeze dried food. Instead of concentrating on measures of couscous and dried peas, I'm making a mental list of all the things I might have inherited.

There's my Mom's good looks and good grades. There's my Dad's wit and grace on the dancefloor. There's grandma's dear and winning sweetness and my grandfather's bedrock principles and persuasive skills. All of which raises the question: of all things, why was it their digestion I inherited?

Scientific visualization of my diet

Regrettably, my food processing unit has more in common with biodiesel processor than I would care to describe. I have to be very picky about the fuel I carry on my hikes. No Cliff Bars. No Tuna or Turkey-a-la-king. No Shepherd's Potato Stew. Yet more proof that life is monstrously unfair.

My quest for the 2,500-calorie-a-day menu began a couple weeks ago. My first objective: the search for a perfect 200-calorie energy bar. I'll need an energy bar for breakfast, two for the morning snack and two for the afternoon snack. That's 5 per day or about a 20,000 energy-bar calories for a 20-day hike.

My mission took me took me to the Arcadia REI. I examined the ingredients of every energy bar on the shelf. (If you haven't tried this and you happen to rely on progressive lenses, don't forget your lab book, magnifying glass and campstool.) After surviving hours of wary looks from the Green-vest People, I left with a sack full of non-dairy candidates from Hammer, Kind Plus, Nature Valley, Picky, Pro Bar, Chia (not the plant), Pure Quaker, Rise and Two Moms.

It took a week of training hikes and blog lurking to chew through the lot. The result: I've ordered $120 worth of Picky Bars, $60 of Hammer Bars, $40 of Kind Plus Bars. I also rediscovered "The Comet Trail;" the blog written by our goddaughter's friend. She has portrayed a marvelous mountain world like a never-never land, apart for us, occupied by lost souls bound by the common causes of recklessness, discomfort and endurance. Her blog is resentfully addictive, absorbing, repelling and beautifully written. Despite the obvious foolishness, I seem to be drifting to this place where I will never belong. It was for another time in life.

I collect my thoughts and return to the task of assembling my food day. Breakfast is easy: 400 calories of oatmeal and raisins with a dash of the pink stuff. I wanted to include a milk substitute. My first experiment was with "Better-than-milk Vegan Soy." (A suggestion taken from Cheryl Strayed mostly because of the ludicrous name.) One sip was of this vile brew was enough; I'd rather have a glass of the cocktail prescribed for celebrating Colonoscopy Eve. (A holiday typically reserved for the plus 50 crowd.) I then tried powdered coconut and rice milks. Not for me. I searched the web for powdered almond milk. The closest supplier was in New Zealand. There will be no milk substitute on the trail.

Lunches were likewise a shoe in: trail mix, beef jerky and an almond-butter tortilla sandwich. That adds up to another 600 calories.

Adding up breakfast, lunch and snacks, I have now mustered 2,000 monotonous calories for my 2,500 calorie food day. Here comes the hard part: fashioning 500-to-600 calorie, dehydrated dinners that provide a scintilla of variety.

I needed ingredients, so I went to the blogs. Enter the miracles of Harmony House and Pack-IT Gourmet. With less culinary skill than it takes to boil water, I was able to obtain a wide pallette. Beefish bits (not beef or fish), black beans, broccoli, burger warp, cabbage, carrots, celery, chickenish bits (not chicken), corn, freeze dried chicken, freeze dried ground beef, freeze dried sausage, garbanzo beans, green beans, hamish bits (even suitable for a hasidic), jalapeno dices, kidney beans, leek flakes, lentils, navy beans, northern beans, onions, peas, peppers, pinto beans, potato, red beans, roast beef warp (2 serving/pack), spinach flakes, split peas, taco bits, tomato, tomato powder, tortilla soup, and vegetable soup mix. To round out the selection I stopped off at the grocery for bags of fideos, couscous, minute rice, oatmeal, raisins and beef jerky.

So here, I stand, completely buffaloed, unable to to decipher which combination of these dehydrates will amount to something edible.

Suddenly an old metaphor pops up from limbic memory: "...as moonlight unto sunlight is that desert sage to other greens..."¹

Yes! Finally an inspiration. Maybe not for an appetite or a recipe, but for the chance at a recursive pun. How about: "As moonlight unto sunlight so is dehydrated food to real food." That proves it. My literary talent is at parity with my culinary talent.

If I ever do complete a menu, I will post it at this link. Bon appetite!

---

1. From one of a Susan Ward's beautiful letters to August Hudson.

Ties that bind

Bingo! Yosemite confirms! I now have a reservation for a solo hike of the John Muir Trail on September 4. Three days after this coming Labor Day, I'll be stepping off the Glacier Point Road at the Mono Meadow trailhead headed south for Whitney.

Someone probably needs to pull me off the ceiling. I feel like running up to Mt. Wilson with a 30-pound pack just to work off a little energy. But I'll have to cool my heels. We're going over to the Swonks' place tonight. Siobahn called. They just purchased some new art and Siobahn can't wait to show Lilalee. No doubt that smug bastard Swonk is probably enjoying the creature comforts having a happy spouse.

Art is subjective. Far be it from me to put a damper on all the cooing over a plain brown flower pot. But even Swonk is swaying back-and-forth, wrists planted on his hips, clearly self-satisfied with what he sees. I doubt Van Gogh got this much adulation.

"We found it in this hole-in-the-wall gallery on La Cienega." says Swonk. "A dump, run by this odd little fellow with a Russian accent."

"He's Czech dear." corrects Siohban. "You can't believe what's in there."

"Good prices," adds Swonk.

Lilalee shoots me a sideline glance. "We're going."

"There goes the camping budget," smirks Swonk and takes a pull on his Modelo. "But, You'll thank me later."

Siobahn gives Swonk a very stern look for his leering smile and takes Lilalee by the arm. "Come look at the print."

I pass before Swonk on the way down the hall. "Speaking of hiking..." he says with mocking jabs of the Modelo, "once again, you've been a bad influence on your goddaughter."

"Won't be the first time," adds Lilalee.

"Don't tell me. She's growing pot in the bath tub."

"Worse," says Swonk. "She's given notice at her job and gonna hike the damn Pacific Crest Trail."

"Honey," corrects Siobahn, "she's just going to do a section. It's only for a month." For Lilalee's benefit she adds, "Julie's going to join her friend Jennifer in Lone Pine. You remember Jennifer?"

"Of course," says Lilalee. She was that clever girl that came to our New Year's Party." What she doesn't say is that Jennifer is the young woman who stormed out of our party because I insulted her. Not my most shining moment.

We gather around the print. We study in silence. It's a surreal ink and watercolor of a young woman singing: could be karaoke, could be a leader of a future matriarchy. A bit on the racy side. Full whimsy and vitality. Completely out of step with the rest of Swonk's art. No cheery flowers or bicycles or fruit baskets. No settled beauty.

"What do you think?" asks Siobahn.

"I love it!" declares Lilalee.

I nod approvingly.

"Don't you I think she looks a bit like Julie?" asks Siobahn.

"Right," mumbles Swonk. "And I look like Scarlett Johansson."

If you ask me, she looks a lot like Julie's friend Jennifer. But no one is asking

---

The girls are drinking tea. Swonk and I split a Modelo. We nibble at pretzels and cookies. As usual, the conversation drifts to our greatest shared interest, their daughter Julie — especially when there's a crisis at hand.

"I figure she's now had her fling with the East Coast," says Swonk. He sighs. "I was hoping she was ready to get serious."

"Where's she gonna stay?" asks Lilalee

Siobahn scowls at Swonk and declares for his personal benefit, "She's gonna stay here as long as she wants." She defies any contraction with a challenging smile that suspends the topic. "Well, enough on that. Nothing's more boring than the All Swonk Network. What's new with you? How goes the hiking?"

For no reason other than to move past this awkward moment, I raise my Modelo and proclaim, "Got my JMT permit today. I'm leaving on September 4th."

Lilalee releases her cup with a clatter. "That's nice to know."

That singular edge in her voice leaves no doubt. I have stepped over some tipping point which is prelude to our worst fights. After these years of living together, I should know that when it comes to me, she better know first. Knowing what others don't is a sign above all others of our mutual trust. She is to be my exception. I am to be hers. Aside from the matter of fidelity, this precious sharing is to be ours alone. And while I understand the concept, I've never held it dear and resent what amounts to an accusation of betrayal when none has occurred. A stubborn, silent resistance wells up.

Siobahn sees immediately that the evening is over. Swonk, interested only in the facts asks, "Who are you going with?"

Lila injects with my answer. "He's going with Duane. A friend from work."

I issue a correction in a tone of infallibility I perfected as a manager of recalcitrant programmers. "Actually, that's just for this shakeout hike. I'm hiking alone. The permit is solo."

Lilalee is now visibly cross. "Why can't Duane go?"

"How should I know? I didn't ask. He's got a job and a family." In that moment I am reminded that I have more binds with these three people than anyone on earth. If anyone was to attend my funeral, it would be these people. And yet not one of them shares my exuberance, my exhilaration, for my date at the Mono Meadows trailhead. You would think I was trying to outdo Shackelton or Scott. They are a bunch worryworts.

"Besides," I add dismissively, "thousands of people do it all the time. And, my leg is fine...more or less."

Swonk, as usual, gets right to the point. "Don't forget to leave instructions for your ashes."

---

We drive home with the radio. She says nothing. We are at loggerheads. She goes to bed early, but not before insisting that I find a hiking partner.

Is this the real meaning of 'human ties?' To hold you back? It shouldn't be this way. I deserve their support. If not, so be it. Nothing like a contrarian idea to lend a coherent focus to the job at hand. I can use the motivation. I've got a schedule to meet. I've got to nail down the menus. My first hike is only 17 days away.

Another lunch with Duane

There's a freakish rain this morning. It never rains this late in the Spring. Maybe it'll put a dent in the drought, but I doubt it.

Duane is standing under the shelter when I roll up to the visitor center at Space System Labs. He's looks to be in hiking shape: tan, tall and thin. He is beard is trimmed. His hair is still long and pulled back. Except for the nerdy, rimless glasses, he'd look more like a biker than someone who's responsible for the well-being of a spacecraft headed for Jupiter.

He climbs in the car and grabs my hand. "How's the life of the retiree?"

"Aside from all the late night partying, things are good."

"I can see that," he says. "You're looking worn out. How's the leg?"

"Good," I say. "Not as good as it once was, but it gets me where I want to go."

"And where's that exactly," he demands ironically.

"Lunch of course."

We drive over to the Hawaiian burger joint in Montrose. We're both hungry. I order the Kilauea: half-pound burger, barbecue sauce, bacon, onion rings and jalapenos. He gets the Mauna Loa: half-pound burger, swiss cheese, avocado, bacon, onions and jalapenos. We split a side order of nachos; one half with no cheese.

While we wait for the food he talks about the latest dreary events at the Lab. Business as usual there. Bright prospects are still thwarted by the familiar foils: managerial mendacity, sacred turf and studied ignorance. I feel a perverse pleasure in knowing that millions are still being wasted.

I used to think someone would find out. Now I know what I could have never known when I worked there. Our old boss, like his peers and their bosses and all their peers and their bosses right up the food chain, is merely a creature of a social order that rewards a focus on number one, cynical reckoning and a preacher's gift for painting a grand vision while cementing a dreary status quo. Progress is what slips between the cracks. In the good-old spacebiz, creativity and innovation are merely mouthed offerings at the Church of Ersatz Hope and Progress provided for the sunday-morning comfort of the space-besotted minions who might otherwise wake-up and revolt. I keep these misanthropic thoughts to myself because Duane is a good man who subscribes to the NASA promise and there's no virtue disabusing someone of a sustaining optimism.

The nachos arrive. We dig in.

"Looks like you've been hiking," I say.

"Yea. I did 60 miles on the Santa Monica Mountains Crest Trail. I've got to get in shape. I'm taking some Scouts over Agnew pass to Garnet Lake. "

I am filled with a deep and abiding respect. I could no more lead a dozen thirteen-year-olds into the Sierras than step up to the keys and bang out a version of the Pathetique. For Duane this is merely second nature. Life is rich in reasons for modesty.

"Got any hikes planned for this summer?" he asks.

"I got my JMT reservation."

"No shit sherlock!" he says with a whack of the table. "Good for you! Happy Isles?"

"Mono Meadows."

"When?" he asks pensively.

"September. September 2nd."

"Got a partner?"

"Nah. I'm going solo."

"Son of a bitch. I'm gonna do that someday."

Our food comes. We eat quickly.

I point with a french fry for emphasis. "I now have a schedule with shakeout trips. I'm calling them ORTs."

"Cute," says Duane who runs operation readiness tests for a living.

"First hike is in just a few weeks.  The passes should be clear by then."

"Where you going," he mumbles with a mouth full of burger.

"I was thinking about Cottonwood Pass or maybe Rae Lakes or Piute Pass."

He chews for a bit then swallows the last of the Mauna Loa. "I've wanted to hike Piute Pass. That sounds very cool."

"Want to go?" I ask.

"When exactly?"

"I'm retired. Exact is no longer in my vocabulary."

He checks his phone. "How about leaving Wednesday the 18th. Get back Sunday. I could take a couple of vacation days."

"Really?"

"Yea. We gotta do this."

---

The last vestige of any rain has evaporated hours ago. I'm in the back. I've got my legs up and my eyes closed. I hear Lilalee come in the front door. I watch her shrug off her purse with a weary look and come around back. "Bitch of commute. Well don't you look like the happy slug that ate the tomato."

"Duane and I are gonna hike Piute Pass on the 18th."

"That's great! I hope you'll be happy knowing that I'll be back here slaving away trying to save humanity. Besides, I don't like you're hiking alone."

I tell her she worries too much.

"For a guy that's supposed to be so smart, sometimes I wonder."

So do I.

The Routine

The dream goes like this. I am riding in a car with a blinker that tells the driver where to go. If the blinker flashes left, we're supposed to turn left. If the blinker flashes right, we're supposed to go right. But the driver doesn't hear the blinker and we're getting farther and farther away from where we're supposed to be. I tell the driver that the blinker is blinking. He doesn't hear me. I tap him on the shoulder. He ignores me. I become afraid and try open the door. It is locked. He speeds up. Suddenly we're headed for a brick wall and I wake up. Just as well, gets me out of bed for my training hikes.

---

I'm in a full bore, heads-down training routine. Up at five. I gulp a quick coffee and power bar. Then twenty minutes for Angel's stretches; ten minutes to tape my feet and dress. Next, there's a trip to the can to empty one bladder and a trip to the kitchen to put a liter-and-a-half in the other—a zero-sum game of sorts. Then the Platypus gets slid behind the cannister into the old Mariposa. Along with the with cat liter and bathmats that comes to 30 pounds. (see The Equipment List). Once I lace up, sling on the pack and stick a Post-IT for Lilalee on the window over the phone, I'm headed out the back door to the Crest Trail. Hopefully by six.

It's the same old 7-mile, Crest Trail route. 700-feet up from the house under the palm trees and street lights to the Tanoble trail head. Then past the crosses where the firemen fell in '93, to the high-spot on the south shoulder of Muir peak with its view of the backyards and the neighbors leaving for work. Then 700-feet down the twisted, eroded slopes, past the fire-proof house, across the Eaton Creek bridge and up 500 feet up the Toll Road to the picnic area. After a ten minute break on an 'L-shaped' tree near the pee zone, it's 600, steep feet down Rattlesnake Trail to the park road and around to the bridge. From there, doubleback up the Crest Trial to the Tanoble trailhead. I can get home around 9, about an hour after Lilalee leaves for work.

I'm now up to three-days on, one-day off. Darn near kills me. My clothes get drenched, my legs rubbery. In the beginning, I struggled to the point that all pride was stripped away. I now make the last up hill with only a pause or two. Progress, but not yet in Sierra shape. The test is will be taking thirty-three pounds up to Mount Wilson and back. That's an eighteen miler with 4,000 foot of elevation gain.

My first ORT is just 3 weeks away. I'm ready for that. I've been looking at the map. With the drought, the passes should be clear early. I could do the loop around Cottonwood Pass to Rock Creek and back over New Army Pass. Or head over Piute Pass around to the Evolution Valley and back. Or maybe even the Rae Lake Loop out of King's Canyon. Or maybe head north to Yosemite. I can't decide.

Duane would be a good guy to talk to. I drop him an email. He's home for the holiday weeked and responds right away. He'll meet me for lunch next Wednesday.

While I'm at it, I order up the freeze-dried Sampler from Harmony Foods and a few bags for dried chicken, beef and sausage from Pack-it Gourmet. Time to nail down the recipes. One thing's for sure, I better get my food figured out or I'm not going anywhere.

---

The passing herd

My mind is a buzz. The clock says it's too early. I pull on a coat and step out back. It's cold; my feet go numb. It's quiet; it's as if the planet was abandoned and no one told me. No dogs barking. No birds stirring. Only a single car rumbling in the distance; probably the Sunday paper.

I look around. There's a waning gibbous moon in the west. I can just make out gray ridge lines on Mount Wilson. I blow a few steamy breaths. It will be frosty up there. A pint bottle would freeze, but the stars would be close, the sky bright, the sway of dark branches calming.

A shiver shoots up in my shoulders. Then down. It's the thin blood. I tuck in my coat. I should get dressed, put on some shoes. I tell myself, "Don't shake." I need to acclimate.

Acclimate. What a nefariously bland word. Do you acclimate to a glorious weather? The serving of your favorite dish? The company of someone you love? Hardly. There's a "like-it-or-not" hidden inside acclimate. Cold is nothing. How about the inexorable dripping of hope and promise from the reservoir of life? Acclimatize to that! Or try to acclimate to the reality that the old one in those photos is you. Or acclimate to the fact that most of the people in your parade of memories will never been seen again no matter how many times you google them. I'd rather acclimate to the cold.

My teeth start to chatter. I pound my arms and shift my feet. The navigation lights atop Mount Wilson pulse in turn as if aware. I need to get up there. Clear my mind. Why not. Aren't I retired? And it's the Lady's needlepoint day. Lilalee sewing some inspirational adage -- no doubt something for my edification.

The back door creaks. Lilalee sticks her head out. "Are you nuts? It's freezing cold."

"I couldn't sleep. It'll be light soon."

"Come to bed. I'll warm you up."

"OK. I'll be there in a minute."

But she can tell I won't. "I'll be glad when you get out of this mood," she says. "And you should at least put on some pants. You look ridiculous."

I watch her tread down the hall in her night shirt and socks. How did I get so lucky? I could just follow and warm in her embrace. It's where I belong, but it's not in me. I am on some road to elsewhere. I go to the kitchen, slather up some "P"-"B"-and-"J" and think about what to put in my day pack.

---

The sun pokes up right at the horizon. I pull in a turn out and watch the miniaturized city crawling to life. The light is strong and warming. The mountain air relieves the clamour in my head. I decide to hike Mt Hilyer. I've got the day. There's no hurry. For no reason at all, I stop off at the Gabrielino and Silver Moccasin trailheads. I walk a few switchbacks down each. I want to do it all.

It's already nine when I park at the Chilao Flats Visitor Center at the base of Mount Hilyer. I find a sunny spot by the nature trail and snarf up a Picky bar and some Trader Joe's trail mix. I'm still hungry. I need something substantial. I get back in the car and drive over to Newcomb's for bacon and eggs.

There's a crowd. Three-dozen bikes are parked in front. Mostly big Harleys with wide seats parked as , neat as forks in a drawer. I decide to go in anyway and take a corner spot at a sideboard by the pool table. It's a freshly showered crowd about my age in black leathers with good haircuts drinking mimosas. I catch snippets of trips to Europe and kids in ivy league schools. I don't see any other hikers. I gobble down my eggs, sausage, potatoes and mop the plate with jelly-slathered toast. I leave a good tip, swallow the last of the coffee and get back on the road. I impulsively turn east for Islip Saddle. I decide I'll hike Mount Williamson. Why not?

---

The Islip lot is empty. A couple of hikers in puffy down coats are sprawled on the picnic table by the pit toilettes. I pull my gear together and walk over to check the trailhead and take a pee. There's a sign at the trailhead. It's posted.

"Closed man," says the hiker in the blue coat. "It's a Yellow-legged Frog thing."

Sure enough. The posting says the trail is closed through Rock Creek. But, the Mount Williamson cutoff comes before that. I could still do the hike.

"A ranger was here earlier," says his buddy with distinct Philly accent. "It's 500 bucks if you get caught. We're thinking about it."

"No we're not," corrects Blue.

"Pussy," says Philly.

These guys are twenty-somethings. They carry ULA packs. Their clothes are dirty; their faces deeply burned from exposure.

"PCTers?"

"Yup." they say in unison.

"We're stars now." says Philly. "Our public should be here soon."

"Forget him," says Blue. "He's didn't sleep last night."

"No shit." Philly says with a wide yawn. "Like a bunch of idiots, we slept at Baden-Powell. Froze our asses off. Who's idea was that?"

"Ghost Buster."

"Still, it was stupid."

I interject. "Doesn't every respectable thru hiker have a trail name."

"'Respectable thru hiker' is an oxymoron," quips Philly.

Blue ignores him. "I'm Cornflake; he's Standup."

"Bull shi-it," says Standup. "His real name is Streaker. Some girls stole his clothes at Deep Creek and he chased after them for 10 minutes. It was hysterical."

"It wasn't funny," Streaker mutters.

"Trust me. I didn't get the name Standup for nothing. I know what's funny. Get used to it."

Standup hops off the table and stretches with a big sigh. "I tell you something that ain't funny, that fucking closure means a fuckin' 3 mile road walk which is gonna fuckin' kill my blisters."

"Every try Luekotape?" I ask. "I got a roll in the car."

"Shit yea," says Streaker.

I always carry Leukotape. I worship at the altar of Luekotape. I cover my feet in it. I prosthelytize Leuktotpe. I think I could save the world with Luekotape. So quite accidentally, I have a purpose. I am galvanized into action. It doesn't matter that these two are callow and prankish—that's a problem for their girl friends. I'm useful. I know something. Is there another benefit to getting old?

I watch these guys tape up. Their shoes are tattered and their feet are filthy. "Where you guys from?"

Streaker is from a Battle Creek Michigan. Standup from Roselle Park, New Jersey.

"We weren't poor, if that's what you were thinking," rebuts Standup.

"I wasn't thinking anything." I answer and change the subject. "Did you guys start together?"

"We met in Idylwild," says Streaker. "My resupply wasn't there. Standup loaned me some money."

"Usual rate of interest sucker," says Standup.

"You're not fooling me with that New Jersey bullshit," replies Streaker.

Suddenly, inexplicably, from nowhere I get this magnanimous feeling for these guys. At that moment I understand why otherwise sane and sensible people become become trail angels. Afterall, who in their right mind would chauffer, feed and house hundreds of smelly strangers who have dedicated themselves, for a while at least, to nothing more than useful than hiking all day every day? Apparently I would.

"I have an proposal," I say."If you want, I could give you guys a ride past the closure." And inexplicably think, 'And we could hike a ways.'

Streaker looks at Standup. Standup looks at Streaker.

"That sounds great sir," says Streaker, "except we're part of group."

"We're gonna meet them here," says Standup.

"Of course," I say. But, being called 'sir' is demoralizing. I should know better. We each have our place. I have mine. They have theirs.

"But thanks anyway. That's really generous and the trail magic was amazing," adds Streaker.

Something about the way he says it. I can't quite tell if he means appreciation or apology.

---

They wave up as I climb the switchbacks above the parking lot. I'm in motion. There's a sweeping view of the Mojave off to the North. I may not know much, but I know this is right.

I'm not a half-mile along when the first of their friends pass. In the lead is a twenty-something steely-eyed brunette with a her hair poking out of her baseball cap. She moves effortlessly at a ferocious clip. I step aside. She passes without a nod. Behind her are two men. One wears a cap; the other lets his shaggy red hair run free. They are working their sticks, pressing hard to keep up. Five minutes later, I pass a slightly older curly blond woman. She shoots me a sidelong glance as she passes. She looks familiar. Maybe a face from the blogs.

For the next mile, I have the trail to myself as it winds through the spruce and fir forest along the steep slope of Mount Islip. Just before I pass the road junction near Jimmy Camp, I pass a slower group of men who move silently with heads down like Monks. Just behind them is an Asian man with a Japanese flag strapped to his pack frame. A few hundred yards behind him, a guy my age who is lurching along in pain.

"How's it going?" I ask with concern.

"Fine. Thanks," he says hardly looking up from what appeared to be the next painful stride. My heart goes out to him. I can only imagine what's going on in his mind as he must surely thinking of giving up.

I cross Windy Gap. It's gusty and cold. I cinch my hat and pull on an extra layer. There is no one on the switchbacks that ascend to the saddle below Mount Hawkins. I feel stronger as I get higher. The trail traverses the ridge and Mt Baldy appears, dominating the view. There's a still a snow cap.

The trail then levels out. I decide to circumvent Throop Peak over to Dawson's saddle for lunch. I find a sheltered spot off the trail. I eat one sandwich facing the Mojave; the other facing Mount Baldy. No one to bother. I stare at the expanse of mountain and sky and think nothing. It is peaceful.

There's a sudden chill in the air. I stretch out and start down the way I came. I pass nary a soul. It's a shame. It's something they should see.

Mine is the sole car in the lot. The PCTers have all gone. I'm in no hurry. The sun has slipped to a low angle that gives shape to every view. I wonder if Lilalee will be home. She would like this. We'll probably watch some costume drama on PBS.

Then, there they are, eight miles down the road, stretched out for a mile. The old guy lurching along; the Japanese man upright; the clump of millennials racing along with Streaker is in the lead. Standup is chatting with the steely-eyed brunette. I drive past slowly and watch them disappear in the rear view. The sight leaves me with pang. I can't tell if it's because I am foolish or apart.

Making lists

I am distracted by a gnawing hunger. Addie and Lilalee are in a spirited frame of mind. They love this place with its white tablecloths and shiny glasses. I polish off my medicine cup-sized orange juice in a swallow and try to stay focused on the conversation.

"Have you been hiking much?" asks Addie with a raised brow and earnest inflection.

Addie has always been earnest—unmistakably so. Interested in that odd, caring way that gathers but doesn't connect. We met long ago. She dated a dimly-remembered roommate. We even went out once; then lost touch. She married Allen. He was OK, but all film biz. When they moved to LA, she looked me up. They rented close by. After I met Lilalee, we all did things together. At least until Allen climbed the food chain and hobnobbed with people whose names appeared in the Hollywood Reporter. It was only after Alan shot himself, leaving her in hideous debt, that Lila and Addie got to be close friends.

"He's been getting up early every morning and hiking," replies Lilalee covering my absence. "He's getting ready to hike the John Muir Trail."

I shrug in agreement.

Time has not be generous with Addie. After Allen, she didn't tap into life much. Her youth wore away quickly. She never aspired to be more a school librarian, never again had a committed relationship. Yet there is not a gram of self-pity in her. She is blessed with a monotonous contentment sustained by a dulled state of awareness that won't meddle in things that lurk below the surface.

When I gaze into her eyes I can still see the girl who got stoned with the stereo blasting Beggars Banquet. It's what surrounds them that marks her losses. Our losses. I see it in the mirror. She must also see it; every day. We're slipping away and not just in the sophomoric, existential way. Surely she knows, it's now or never for us.

"How interesting!" Addie exclaims. "What's the John Muir Trail?"

"A path to redemption."

Lilalee admonishes me with a teasing scowl. "Now be serious."

Our server arrives with the steaming plates. Unfortunately mine is more decorative than substantial: a two-tablespoon dome of egg, two shoelaces of bacon, a crescent of hashbrowns and a puddle of jelly under a lean-to of bite-sized pieces of dry wheat toast. I could easily eat every morsel on the table.

---

We say our goodbyes and drive north towards the mountains. The windows are down. Clouds from the latest rainless storm race east sending a dance of shadows across sunlight slopes.

"She was doing good, don't you think?" says Lilalee.

"I thought so. I think it's her nature."

"Maybe," she replies. "I can't even imagine what she's been through."

I nod, but not so much to agree as to turn my thoughts to something else.

Lilalee turns with a merry pose. "I don't want to go home. Let's see a movie."

"I need to work on the plan."

She purses a look of disappointment. "Ok. I just hope this thing isn't going to take over our life."

---

There's always been this countdown clock in my head. When I was young it was morbid. Now it's practical to be morbid. I cope with the clock by making lists. A list puts my mind's at peace. I can just concentrate with confidence; oblivious to the next thing.

Once home Lilalee leaves me to my devices. I grab a yellow pad, and I begin to gather the loose ends. They come quickly.

Permit. I need the permit. To walk the John Muir Trail, you must have a permit. I must apply soon. The slots go quickly.

I need a date for the application. I fumble around for the freebie calendar from Amalgamated Insurance. (No reason to tempt fate by throwing away the year before it happens.) I rip the pages and set them side by side. August is too early; I won't be ready. Come mid-September the passes could get snowed in. No guarantees either way. I zero in on the day after Labor Day, September 2nd. That's it. I'll apply tomorrow. Two scratches on the pad. Progress.

Next things are more work. A hike plan: campsites, miles per day, resupply points. Resupply stops are pretty obvious: Tuolumne Meadows, Red Meadows, John Muir Trail Ranch and a pricey, packer delivery over Kearsarge Pass near Duck Lake. The resupply dates are another thing. They will take some head scratching. I need those dates to know how much food to stuff in the cannister on each leg of the hike. Wenk's spreadsheet¹ will be a big help. She's mapped out campsites and landmarks along the route. I signal the on-high a note of thanks for Ms. Wenk and scribble some more.

And then there's the food plan. Each meal, each day must be plotted. They better be dense with calories: about 1,200 calories per pound. 1,500 per pound is better. At a pound-and-a-half per day, that could be 12 hefty pounds of food for the longest stretch. Those will be non-dairy calories, or I'll pass my days digging cat holes. No good store-bought choices on that score. I jot: "Freezer-bag meals. Non-dairy recipes. Freeze-dried stuff (buy/make?). Test at home."

I lean back. That's the thing. I need to test out everything. I'll need shakeout trips for the new gear. That's what we did back at Space System Labs to get ready for a launch: shake-out tests. They were called "Operational Ready Tests" or ORTs. I'll need ORTs. The more the better: A three-dayer? A four-dayer? Maybe two? I study the calendar pages and mark off ORTs for June, July and August. More time in the Sierras. This is starting to feel real.

Another thing. Resupply buckets must be provisioned and positioned. Some mailed. Some delivered. I can do that while I acclimatize for the hike. Three days should be plenty of acclimatization. Where? I draw some more x's and arrows on the calendar.

The days are filling up: only 114 days by my reckoning. That's enough time to get strong, but I still need to include those natty travel details like reservations for zero days and acclimatizing days. Not to mention just getting there and getting back.

There's a knock. Lilalee sticks her head in. "How's it going?"

"Good. I was just thinking about how I'm going to get to there and get home."

"I can drive. Let's make it a mini-vacation. How's that?"

I love her smile. Things are coming together. Tick-tick-tick.

---

^1. See John Muir Trail: The Essential Guide to Hiking America's Most Famous Trail by Elizabeth Wenk. The spreadsheet is available for download.