THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND

DAY 15 - August 22, 2010: Wasted

Entering the third week of this hike. Exhausted from three high passes in a row, yesterday did 12 miles and 3500 feet up to get over Glen. Scenery is all the same, you’ve seen one mountain, one wildflower, one lake, you’ve seen ‘em all. One damn canyon after another, up, down, up, down, is all it is. I’m an old guy, remember. Am I a masochist? What am I doing this for? Plod, plod, plod. Straps pulling on the shoulders, OW! Sit down for a while, the granite rocks rub holes in my shorts. The food tastes like wet cardboard, I don’t even want to eat. Overkill, that’s what the Great Spirit is doing now. I miss home, I miss taking showers and sleeping on a bed. Hiking eight or nine hours a day? What’s the point? Anyhow two weeks is enough. More than enough. Right?

Great Spirit says “no.” Not enough. This time you’ve gotta actually do it, not just talk about it. Take it like a man, ya big sissy. The only way to get out is straight through the middle, on up ahead. Just follow the path. And remember (says the big bully) the path is more important than the destination. Live In The Moment (yeah, right, when my feet are getting pounded by sharp rocks), Be Here Now (uh huh, haven’t I heard that somewhere before?) And now I’ve got to get ready for . . . Forester Pass?

Going on about why I’m doing it, GS tells me I’m learning all sorts of important lessons, like patience, endurance, following through on plans, making do with what is, trusting the path, breathing right, and on and on, even includes not complaining. Says that’s why he/she/it gave me back my sense of smell, a kind of reward for getting this far. Says I’d better keep on doing it or he/she/it might get mad. And I wouldn’t want to see him/her/it mad, now, would I? You didn’t do this to show how tough you are or aren’t, says GS, you did it to toughen up. Now toughen up.

Anyhow, let’s leave me & GS to our back-and-forth, it’s not going away anytime soon, and get back to what happened today. Today was a short day, but kind of frustrating. Only hiked six miles, but at the end had a hard time finding a suitable place to stop and camp. Need to get over Forester Pass and as far as possible tomorrow. This is because I’ve just got to get out of here, and that’s the only way, ha ha, and if I don’t go far enough I’m going to run out of food and probably go crazy as well, crazier than I already am, that is.

From where I was it wasn’t far to Bubbs Creek, which tumbles and pools down from 13,180 foot Forester Pass, the climb I’ve been dreading for days. That smell of doug fir, remembered from my childhood, is in the air everywhere. The area near the Road’s End trail junction (yet another one!) is dominated by old growth forest, big trees with lots of open space beneath them, magical. Good I can still appreciate this. Actually the hike upwards is on a good trail, not rocky, not a very steep grade, as comfortable as uphill gets around here.

I meet a guy coming down who asks me what the hiking is like around Red’s Meadow/Mammoth, he’s heard there’s still snow up there (no, not to speak of). He says the trail is good, more or less like this, to the top of Forester. Good to hear, but I’m not believing it yet. I figure on going on up as high as I can by early afternoon, then finding a campsite as close to the pass as possible. Where the creek comes in from Center Point Basin there are all sorts of really nice campsites, and some even have bear lockers, which makes storing food a little more convenient even when you have a bear canister already.

But after I passed those great sites, I kept going, even though still exhausted from the day before, wanting to get higher up. Went up past the tall trees, almost to the edge of the timberline, and realized I couldn’t count on finding water up ahead, so I’d better take the first site where there was a hint of water, or I might have to go back for the night. Lucked out and found one high on the ridge above Bubbs and not too far from the trail, where there was a spring within walking distance. Set up camp and took a long nap. Simple pleasures mean so much up here: that sleep felt like a great luxury. Rose around dinner time, cooked, ate, went back to sleep for the night. Dreamless, I hope. . . stay away, Elvis and Benny . . . .



Next Entry: punchdrunk?

THREE IN A ROW

DAY 14 - August 21, 2010: Call it preparation

Woke this morning to a nice surprise. Camped not 100 feet away were Anniell and her friends, Cindy and Jennifer. I’d come in at about 1:30 PM, but they’d pulled in at 9:30, well after bedtime. We had a good visit, and as I was getting short on food, they made some helpful donations to my stash—nothing big, but some good stuff full of protein and such, add-ins to coming meals. The next day they were getting a final resupply, so they themselves wouldn't be running short.

They’d been three or four miles behind me every night, having gotten started really late the day leaving Muir Trail Ranch. Anniell had been having a little rougher time, as these hikes were averaging well over a mile per day longer than on our first seven days, the passes were higher, and the drops in between just as deep or deeper than before. She had sent her tent back to get rid of some pack weight and was now sleeping in Cindy’s. Tonight, they were planning on crossing Glen Pass and getting to Charlotte Lake for their next resupply. I had planned to take another short day and sleep at Rae Lakes, then do the pass in the morning, which would probably have us ending up around the same place the following day.

It was good to see Anniell again, but at this point I was very much in a groove of hiking alone. There were all those great inner conversations, and then there was the close companionship of the Great Spirit, I didn’t want that to lose that. If Jim and Dustin had been here it would have been different: we shared some background, interests, and attitudes that would have made the trip meaningful in a different way. Jim and I went back more than 45 years, to Berkeley, to early times in Thailand! We would have had some conversations of our own, and those guys would have been finding the Spirit in their own ways. But they weren’t here, and the trip had become a way for me to get the most out of solitude and isolation, commodities hard to come by in the outside world.

In yesterday’s entry I forgot to mention it, but I had a mystical experience a bit above the usual. Coming down to Woods Creek, I was looking across at the grandeur of the peaks and valleys across the canyon. It’s amazing how commonplace these views are up here. In spite of the discomfort of hiking with a big pack on a rocky, slippery trail, I felt that I was not only the observer, but was the entire scene I was observing, that there was really no place where I left off and the rest of what I was seeing began. One with the universe, all that stuff usually reserved for LSD trips, right? And I had the distinct impression that I was getting some messages from somewhere about how to approach my life from here on out, good, positive messages. And at the same time, and this is gonna sound strange, I noticed I was smelling all the good smells of the forest, the wildflowers, the pines, firs, cedar. This was a surprise because my sense of smell has largely been AWOL for the last twenty years or so. But all today my sense of smell has been back, big-time. Must be cleaning mind and body out here.

For most of the trip I’d been thinking I had seven passes to cross, getting gradually higher, starting at around 11,000 feet and ending with Forester at 13,180. But yesterday Brad had pointed out that actually I should be thinking it was eight passes, since Whitney Trail Crest was also a pass, actually the highest pass of all, at 13,650 feet. I’d be doing that—plus climbing the extra 1000 or so feet up to the summit and back down again—on the next to last day. That got me rethinking my strategy, planning to get as far each day as possible, so the last climb would start higher. I’d originally planned on hiking up to Whitney from Crabtree Meadow, but if I could make it the extra 3 miles up to Guitar Lake, that would allow me to be a lot fresher for the climb up those bezillion switchbacks on day 18. In any case I’d be hiking alone, but would probably see Anniell and friends again at Guitar Lake and Trail camp, as they were planning on going out the same day as I was.

So I figured to arrive at Rae Lakes in the early afternoon, take a break at the upper lake, and decide whether to go on over Glen Pass today or not.

The hike up to the lakes was fairly gradual, and I was fresh. Spectacular country. This section and the Evolution Valley/Lakes section were generally considered the most beautiful sections of the JMT.

Got to upper Rae Lake before 1 PM, and took a break till about 1:30. Rae Lakes were every bit as beautiful as advertised. I hope I can get back this way sometime. But by then I’d already decided to go on over the top and make some miles. This would make three 12,000-foot passes crossed in as many days, but it would give me a short day tomorrow, a chance to rest some before tackling Forester, at 13,000+ by far the highest so far. I could see that Glen Pass was steeper and tougher than I’d thought, but even if I took it at my geezer snail’s pace I’d still get up in plenty of time to find a place to camp.

Glen Pass was steep, all right. And I was starting to get used to not being able to figure out where the trail to a pass was actually heading. Eventually, as this time, I’d usually ask someone who was coming down the other way. They’d point up somewhere and I’d see a tiny human figure or two moving around up there, impossibly far off. But you learn. Just keep on slogging, one foot in front of the other, you get there. No sweat.


It was really windy at the top. I got dizzy, but it wasn’t enough to really throw me off balance. There were 3 twenty-somethings up there, nice kids on a day hike from Kearsarge Lakes. One was an American-born Thai, he’d noticed my Siam Reap t-shirt and asked about it. He felt bad that he couldn’t speak Thai very well, had little connection to his parents’ country.




The other side of Glen was more like the south side of Muir than of Mather or Pinchot: a narrow, winding canyon, with a tricky, rocky trail twisting down. I looked for a place to camp, passed a couple of small lakes but decided to keep looking. Finally realized I’d have to go quite a distance yet, as there didn’t seem to be any water for a long way past those initial lakes. After a couple of miles Charlotte Lake appeared. Didn’t want to go there, because it was a couple miles out of the way, so kept walking.

About a mile down ran across quite an anomoly: a whisky bottle, about ¾ full, by the side of the trail! I understand why it was there, I think. This section of the JMT is frequented by fishermen and weekenders on loops in from Onion Valley, to the east. A lot of them just come in to party for a few days, don't give a lot of thought to keeping packs light. I wouldn’t have wanted something that big in my pack going over that pass either. Someone got tired and figured they might as well donate some of their burden to a thirsty downhill hiker. Inspired with this generosity, I took off the top, poured a tiny shot into it, and downed it in honor of the donor. Could not imagine drinking more. Alcohol seemed a very strange and exotic creation at this point.

Real thirst was actually a little problem right now. Getting just a little worried about finding a campsite with water, especially important because there was only a little left in the bottles, and it had been a hot day. So plod, plod, plod, ah, here the trail finally goes down into a canyon, there’s gotta be water . . . what? I’ve hiked 12 miles today?
It was getting late, but I found a perfect little spot at the Bullfrog Lake trail junction. Beautiful clear little stream. This was my longest day yet, 3500 feet elevation gain before coming down 1500, and yes, it was 12 miles. Three days in a row of these passes, wow. I am seriously exhausted. Glad I don’t have to go so far tomorrow.
Next entry: too much of a good thing?

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!

Next Entry: The longest day