ANOTHER ONE!

DAY 13 - August 20, 2010: Long short day

Woke today prepared for another heavy uphill, carbon copy of the Mather ascent, was not disappointed in that. It turned out to be ever so slightly easier, but again, a couple of miles, and about a 1500-foot ascent to about 12,000 feet. But the deal was, the rest of the day would be a lot shorter, as I was only planning to go as far as Woods Creek, all downhill after Pinchot Pass.

Amazing to me was that the south side of Pinchot was so similar to the Kings River basin on the south side of Mather. Almost a mirror image, though not quite so wide, and with the little lakes on the left instead of the right. Striking! But seeing that, remembering yesterday, I knew what to expect after the switchbacks down: a long, long slog through the high desert. Well, that was OK. I was averaging maybe a mile an hour on those steep uphills, sometimes ¾ mile an hour, but near 2 miles an hour on level/downhill combinations. I could put up with some more drudgery.

Following close on my heels were Bob and Brad, the father-son hiking team who’d come into camp last night. Took a picture of them as they reached the top, then talked a bit. Brad (the son) had seen me wearing the Cal Band Alumni sweatshirt last night and mentioned he was a Berkeley guy, too, comforting that he wasn’t from Stanfurd . . . they’d come in at Florence Lake (Muir Trail Ranch) and were doing the southern half of the JMT, but with extra play time around the Kearsarge Lakes, where they were meeting friends and family. I envied them.
When I got up to go on, saying “no moment like the present,” Brad gave up one of the most memorable lines of the trip: “Yes, the trail doesn’t walk itself.” “Man,” I thought, “I wish it would.” On the other hand, what was I doing this all for? Why should I want the trail to walk itself? I was doing this damn trail for some damn reason, right? But simple fact: the trail will not walk itself. You're out here, you walk it.

The Buddhists say that life is suffering, and that dealing with life properly requires accepting that as fact and finding the best way of living with it, for which they offer guidelines. Buddhism tends not to be dogmatic, which I like, and at its best tells you to question everything. I think of myself as a Buddhist-Taoist. In their most general form, these traditions seem pretty compatible with each other. Each could be thought of as more a philosophic tradition than a religious one, strikes me as a sensible approach. Forget “faith.” I remember that great early Cheech and Chong skit where one of them says “I used to be all fucked up on heroin. Now, I’m all fucked up on The Lord.” That’s faith, not too sensible at all, but pretty typical of the foundation of most "religious" people's thinking, at least Christians and Muslims. What’s important is how we deal with the problems we face here and now, not thinking about what will happen after we die. Both traditions, at least in the forms I like best, also value the path more highly than the destination. Enlightenment, nirvana, freedom from suffering, harmony with all that is may be a great and noble goal, but what is most important is movement towards the goal. There is a path, you just have to find it, and it will eventually take you where you want to go. What do you do if you get lost? Get back on the path. That’s what makes for a harmonious and positive life, insofar as it’s possible to have such a life. But yes, it does take some effort to walk it.

So here I am on this path. That is, on this trail. It would be nice if it walked itself, at least I thought so, but it won’t, that’s so obvious it doesn’t need saying. But then, it actually does need saying. Brad said it, and I thought, “you know, I should keep that in mind.” If it walked itself, it wouldn’t need me here. Metaphor for life. So walk the walk, that’s the message.

All this I was thinking while plodding along, step after step, yard after yard, mile after mile. The basin below Pinchot stretched on for ages, but not forever. That was a boon. But my, the pack was heavy, and sometimes the goal of getting through the next week seemed a lot more important than being on this path. Being on the path, though, remained the only reasonable way of getting through the next week. And the trail was not going to walk itself.

According to scuttlebutt along the trail, there was a forest fire thirty or forty miles away, and this, not smog from distant LA, was causing the haze we were seeing everywhere. Never mind, it was still the Sierras, still magnificent.

It seemed long, but it was only about 1:30 or so that I arrived at Woods Creek crossing. There’s an pedestrian suspension bridge there which someone must have had a lot of fun designing. It looks quite new. Strangely, after crossing it from north to south, you can look back to read a sign saying “one person at a time on bridge.” Nowhere to be seen on the other side. And why would they take so much trouble to build a bridge which wouldn’t handle more than that? Anyhow I crossed, and found some great campsites (with built-in bear lockers!) on the far side, and decided to call it an early day, pitch camp and relax. The next day I was planning on doing only seven miles or so, camping at Rae Lakes. Take it easy for a bit, why not?

So I hung out there for the day. Bob and Brad soon showed up, and then the teens and dads I’d gone back and forth with since Mather, the two teens crossing at the same time and scaring us: were they setting up a powerful harmonic vibration which would topple the bridge? As it turned out, no problem. Bob and Brad stayed for quite a while. Bob (Brad’s dad, the guy actually older than I am, who no more looks 69 than—I hope—I look 66) went off fishing in Woods Creek and in a very short time caught two trout, which the two of them promptly cooked and ate. Made me want to fish, especially as I was so tired of what I was having to eat every morning and night, I was envious.

Having a bit of time, I struck up a conversation with these two very interesting guys. Both had PhDs, and Bob, the one who had a couple of years on me, turned out to have a background in foreign languages similar to mine, though unfortunately—like my uncle, and my grandfather, which I try to forget—he did get all his degrees from Stanfurd! Forgive him this, O Great Golden Bear, his father had taught at Cal, his son went there. We carried on a conversation in German for a bit, we both spoke French and had a passing acquaintance with Chinese and Russian. Brad was a computer scientist, and worked for HP. Wow. Hope to stay in touch with these guys, would like to see them in Thailand someday.

Oh, one more thing before this entry is done. I won’t inflict any more of these on you, but last night I had a dream. No more politicians or requests to do Elvis, but this one hit home, though as far removed from the Ansel Adams wilderness as any of those. In this one was Benny Goodman. He was looking for a trumpet player to work with, and my name came up. Sure, I’d have liked to work with Benny at any time, more when he was doing the small group work with Teddy Wilson, Lionel Hampton, and Slam Stewart than other times, maybe, but pretty much any time. So I was there at what I thought was an audition. But he didn’t want to hear me play. Instead, he had three questions that I was supposed to answer correctly. What was he, a sphinx or something? And what did this old guy ask me?

“Do you know Gerb Moscowitz?”
Answer: no.
Oh. Well, then, do you know the tune “Sally’s Jumble Jive?”
Answer: sorry, no.
“Hmm. How come Gerb told me ‘you should hear this guy play Sally’s Jumble Jive?’”
Answer: “So play it for me, maybe I know it.”
He put an old LP on the turntable, and I listened. It was basically a blues, a little wa-wa trumpet stuff, à la Cootie Williams, nothing complicated.
I said “Well, I don’t know it, but I can play it.” That didn’t connect with him.
Then he asked me if I’d ever been to a certain neighborhood in LA, can’t remember the name. I was unfamiliar with that, too. So he never did hear me play, and it was not for playing badly, but for some other odd reason that I didn’t get the gig.

I’m going to try to forget my dreams from now on, try to live more in the moment, with the dirt and the bugs (hey, since Muir Pass, almost no bugs!) and the fatigue and the bad food and . . . you know the rest. Anyhow if I have any more, I won't bother you with them.

By now I’d decided tomorrow would be another short day, would just do the seven miles up to Rae Lakes and cross Glen Pass the next morning. Relished the thought of more rest. Bob and Brad buried their fishbones and moved on up the trail, they were gonna do Glen Pass the next day and be at Kearsarge Lakes by 2 PM. But my original schedule had me camping at Rae Lakes, supposed to be beautiful, and I was looking forward to it. Gawd, felt great to have an afternoon off!

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