CATCHING UP TO THE JONESES

DAY 17 - August 24, 2010: To base camp

Woke appropriately early, as usual. Always to bed at or before last light, up with the earliest hint of dawn. Haven’t mentioned much about the moon, but it’s been mostly full or near full for a good part of the trip, a strong and glorious night light.

Have only really seen the moon here at that absurdly mundane moment, when leaving the tent in the middle of the night to pee: the paradox again, discomfort and great beauty, the sublime and the silly. But even then, the sight is uplifting, especially when you’re up high and have a view of lakes and peaks in moonlight and soft shadow.

A couple of nights ago one zipper on the bug screen broke. There are two, but I knew that if the other one went, I wouldn’t be able to shut the screen, and just saying “no” wouldn’t be enough: those female mosquitoes would have their way with me. Well, this morning, the second one broke. But only two nights to go, it could be worse. And, remember, there have hardly been any mosquitoes or flies since Muir pass, maybe the Great Spirit’s reward for my commitment to finish what I started. So the worst thing about this, really, is that it looks embarrassing. If there are other tents around tonight, I’m gonna face it the other way.

Instead of coffee I’ve been cooking up miso soup in the morning, a habit that may—if I ever make it back to that other world—perhaps continue, it’s great. This is my last packet of miso, however. What next, hot water? The trip teaches one to be endlessly creative, so I’ll probably think of something. I think back to a few days ago, when a hiker coming up behind me cheerily observed, “wow, great idea! Duct tape, 1001 uses, never saw that one before! He was referring to my carefully repaired shorts. I’d brought two pair, but they’re each made of cotton, and I’ve sat down on granite so often in the last weeks that both have developed serious holes in the seat. Actually the one was already developing them, that’s why I’d picked up the second one. Anyhow the older one had reached a crisis point, so I’d tried a new solution and learned that, as the American Duct Tape Council says, it’s “more than a miracle adhesive; it's a balm for the soul of the unprepared and inept.”


Got on the trail early this morning, before 8. Started up the first 400-foot climb wondering how Anniell and friends were doing. I’d expected to see them pull in around here last night, but I was the only camper in sight. They were planning on making Guitar Lake tonight, as well, so I assumed we’d see each other there.

The ascent to Bighorn Plateau was pleasant, I was hiking well in the morning, and the scenery was a cut above the norm, even for here. Tall trees, widely spaced, a comfortable trail with a decent grade, with views through the trees of ranges I hadn’t seen. Wondering if or when Whitney would pop into view, it seemed unbelievable that it was this close, the summit only 15 miles away or so.
Was hoping to see a bighorn sheep up here, but didn’t. Bighorns are an endangered species, but due to restoration efforts there are about 400 in the Sierra Nevada now, and supposedly two herds are ranging somewhere near here. Bighorn plateau looks to my untrained eye like a perfect grazing spot, you’d expect to see scores of them. Up near 11,000 feet, a huge wide open grassy space with a lake at the edge, and not far to the east are cliffs and crags where they’d feel right at home. But Aha! Whitney! You can just see the summit, the peak way over to the left on this wide picture below. Tomorrow.

Still, the only wildlife I see here consists of a few birds . . . and a bezillion grasshoppers! As I followed the trail through a long grassy section, they came to life, hopping right along beside me. Not sure why. Were my footsteps kicking up things they liked to eat? Doesn’t seem likely. As the trail moved into a barren area, fewer followed, until there were only a few, then only one, and then that one gave up, too. Too bad, I was enjoying all the attention. Told you I was getting punchy.

I did appreciate the surroundings—it was impossible not to—but each day it was harder to enjoy myself, and I thought more and more about getting out of the wilderness . . . now only two days away, but feeling endlessly distant. My old body was holding up pretty well, all things considered, though I still didn’t feel as strong as I thought I should, and my right knee had been hurting a bit for a couple of days. The Great Spirit was still there, and I realized that this journey was very important in my life, but I was weakening. No matter, this is just one of the facts I have to deal with, it doesn’t diminish the value of it all. Just keep after it. No choice in that, actually, I really have to keep after it. It feels as though it will never end, but of course that is just a trick my mind is playing on me. In a bit over two days I’ll actually be soaking in a hot bath and drinking a pale ale, it’s true, why can’t I believe that?

I’m reading maps better. Realizing how clueless I was before at estimating the difficulty of a given hike. Now I can see pretty clearly from the contour lines what’s ahead, it will make planning a lot easier if I ever do a long backpacking trip again. Somehow I think there won’t be another as long as this one, though. So, from Bighorn it was down to Wallace Creek, then up again, over a rise, and down again to Crabtree Meadow, then the last three miles up to Guitar Lake.

Nobody else was on the trail, or at least there was no one near me. This has been the first day in quite a while that that has been true. Did exchange pleasantries with the leader of a packtrain coming up the other way, but after that saw no one until after my final long break, at Crabtree. After that I did some leapfrogging up to Guitar with these two twenty-something Iranian guys who were doing a much shorter Whitney loop than mine. I was gratified that I made it up to the lake before they did, not because they were Iranian, but because they were young! Actually talked to one of them on a break, seemed like a really good guy. He was having trouble with the altitude, and that was also mildly gratifying, only because misery loves company. But while I was tired enough to not be overjoyed on finally reaching the lake, I really wasn’t miserable.

Passed beautiful Timberline Lake on the way up, and took a picture. No camping allowed. Would be a great place for it, though.
Another packtrain passed, going our direction. I stuck out my thumb, and they laughed. This one was some kind of dude ranch packtrain: some folks actually ride up and have their supplies packed in to Guitar Lake, then do Whitney as a day hike, no pack. Wimps! Ah, but maybe next time we’ll try that, no?

Keeping up with the Joneses. I’d been passed by a lot of folks in past days and even weeks who’d told me they’d be staging at Guitar Lake today, and sure enough, a bunch of them were here, and some greeted me when I pulled in. I asked one, “so this is the famous Guitar Lake?” and he laughed, “No, Peter, it’s the next one up, just keep on going!” A gal named Ros pointed me to a campsite down by the lake that hadn’t been taken. This was definitely the most crowded I’d seen anywhere on the trail, except maybe McClure Meadow. Strange how these people felt like old friends, though we’d only exchanged a few words here and there at different points. It felt good that I’d stayed with the program and caught up with them. But . . . so far, no Anniell!

I was running low on food, but still had enough for tonight and tomorrow, with a very skimpy breakfast on the last morning, anyhow. Tonight I’d get a bit more than usual, since tomorrow was a big day in a lot of ways: climb, altitude, and distance to the next camp. Had two of those freeze-dried dinners left, only one of which could be seen as halfway decent, had that one. Tomorrow’s breakfast? Endless creativity again: mashed potatoes mixed with corn, and mushroom gravy. Yum! Oh, and a dude lady from the horse camp just above me came down and gave me an extra bag lunch they had: a fresh plum, wow!!!! Can't tell ya how good that went down. Saved the Butterfinger for a snack tomorrow, and haven't decided yet just what to do with the peanut butter sandwich.


Next Entry: a dream no longer deferred