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

CROSSING THE DESERT

DAY 12 - August 19, 2010: They lied

There is a poignancy in all things clear,
In the stare of the deer, in the ring of a hammer in the morning.
Seeing a bucket of perfectly lucid water
We fall to imagining prodigious honesties.
—from “Clearness” by Richard Wilbur

When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, again appeared at my tent door there at Palisade Lakes, I was ready. At least I thought I was . . . those tough hiker dudes yesterday had pointed to a low ridge, that was Mather Pass, the 12,100 footer I was to cross this morning, right?

NOT! They’d lied. Or, more likely, I had not understood their lovely words. Anyhow it was a LOT higher and further off than the ridge I’d though they meant. To think they’d lied gave me a nice object for my displeasure at finding out Mather was a toughie. OK, OK,I know, it’s my fault for doing the wishful thinking.

Actually, it wasn’t that bad, just kinda long. There was just one section that was really, really steep. I took it slow, as usual, and just kept pumping, didn’t stop often. Hyperventilating helped, I discovered. My legs needed more and more oxygen, and that heavy breathing was helping get it there. I was keeping a pretty decent pace: a couple of teenagers passed me, but the dads and cousin that were with them didn’t. This party and I would be leapfrogging each other quite a bit over the next few hours. They were just on a loop of several days, not going to Whitney.

About halfway up I heard someone coming up behind me, and turned to look. It was an absolutely gorgeous young lady, her face and figure would have suited a Parisian model. I stepped aside in admiration as she zoomed by. Had a full pack, was not using hiking poles, a water bottle just hooked around and dangling from her little finger, just striding up these switchbacks as nonchalant as if she were just out for a morning stroll in Golden Gate Park.

The view of the other side was very different the other day coming down from Muir Pass into LeConte Canyon, expansive rather than narrow and cramped. We were looking down into the broad upper basin of the Kings River. It appeared to be a kind of high desert, but spotted with bright blue lakes. In the distance, high-hanging forested valleys could be seen among the peaks. (You've just gotta click on the picture, it's a startling view).


There were several groups of hikers resting at the top, including the female hiking phenom. It turned out she was actually a Kings Canyon park ranger, wearing an official Park Service shirt and patch.

This was a long hike. The Kings River Basin goes on and on, I found out, five or six never-ending miles of that high desert, sagebrush and dust before ducking down below timber line, and then it would go down fast, to 9600 feet before crossing the Kings River and going up, up again to 11,000, about eleven miles in all. Step, step, step, step, on and on. Becomes a mantra, becomes many mantras. Helps you see nothing, or helps you see and hear the Great Spirit, depending on how you look at it or what you call it. But I was never sure what I was seeing, exactly. Was this a world Where truths fell from the steeples like a jackpot of dimes ?

Sometimes felt like it. What truths? Or was it Thule of the mind’s worst vanity? All the same Wilbur poem, one of my favorites, checkitout.

See, either getting punchy or getting mystical these last days, alone. Some contact with other groups, but almost all the time it’s been just me alone with the rhythm of my walking and breathing, and my thoughts. This feels both good and bad. It’s good in the way the practice of meditation is good: the confused thoughts of the mind simplify and drift off, and creates a kind of peace. It’s also bad in the way the practice of meditation is bad: it’s painful and boring. The challenge is to get the right frame of mind, to really appreciate the moment, to not be bored, and not see the pain as bad. I’m doing this to get some kind of lesson, obviously, and this is a good one, if it takes. What the heck, I’ve never been to boot camp, or lived the monastic life, maybe this makes up a little bit for that.

And did you think the weird dreaming was over? Sorry, no. Last night at Palisade Lake my dream world took me back to Monterey Ave. in Berkeley, a neighborhood where I lived in my freshman year at Cal. Some of the real estate ladies from yesterday and I, and, oh, yes, Dianne Feinstein, were all moving into a large rental house together. I remember addressing the Senator as “Mrs. Feinstein,” or “Senator Feinstein,” and her saying, “please just call me by my first name, the way my dad used to call me, “Denti.”

Took a long break at the river crossing. In front of me stood a weirdly twisting tall stump of a long-gone tree: you could imagine it was in the form of a wiry person, leaning forward. Some joker had put a rock on what looked like the top of a left arm, so the whole apparition looked like an abstract statue of a lefty putting the shot.

Going up the climb to the Bench Lake trail junction I again had endurance problems, was very slow and took a lot of breaks. But I was realizing that style eventually gets you to the top anyway. The disadvantages were 1) loss of time and 2) bruised self-image. No matter, today I’d get further than my original goal, and be ready for Pinchot pass tomorrow, the second 12,000-foot pass in as many days. “What a concept,” thought my legs and lungs. Look at the picture, you can see how tiringly far the old body with the house on its back dragged itself today. Scary. But I’m realizing, yes, it may look far, or look high, but, by golly whillikers, it doesn’t have to be intimidating. You can actually go that far and that high. The impossibly distant is actually attainable. This is another lesson from the Great Spirit.

Pulled into Marjorie Lake, I was feelin' 'bout half-past dead, at around 4:30, not bad. Beautiful little lake, and Pinchot was only about as far ahead and up as Mather had been this morning. Hope it’s easier, but that’s probably too much to hope for.

As I was about to crash, a couple of guys pulled in and camped nearby. Talked briefly, we came the same distance today. “I’m old, so I move kinda slow,” said the one guy. “Aha, how old?” sez I. “69,” he replied. Wow, got me beat! No records to be made here, except for a personal best.

Next Entry: two in a row

TO THE DREAMY PALISADES

DAY 11 - August 18, 2010: Up the stairs

Did I dream, last night, now? Indeed. Most interesting dreams they were, too. Nothing you might expect on a long hiking trip, such as being caught on an endless treadmill, talking to coyotes, or falling off a cliff. No, these dreams took me completely out of the wilderness and into highly improbable dilemmas in at least one big city. Two connecting dreams, or one dream with tenuous connections to another, anyhow very colorful. First, I’d somehow become part of a convention of real estate developers. Most of the attendees were yuppie women, and for some reason they’d decided that I would star in the convention’s evening entertainment as an Elvis impersonator. I tried to beg off, but they were insistent. However, it never actually happened, they found someone else. This was, I believe, because I couldn’t make the rehearsal, as one of the women had asked me to pick up a fancy dress for her which was for some reason at a Greek Orthodox church. I drove to the church, and for some reason my 23-year-old son Mike was along, in a stretch Citroen deux-chevaux, vintage circa 1963, white with two red racing stripes around the body. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a stretch deux-chevaux outside of this dream, but that was what it was, stretched-out and with a hatchback trunk. Anyhow we picked up the dress from the priest, it was stylish but a conservative grey, with a big red ruby-like stone set in the belt. On the way back we were stopped, ticketed for some minor traffic violation and harassed by a portly, late middle-aged Chinese cop. Had to leave the car while he took us into the station. When we came out again, the car was missing. Everyone was Chinese, and the area looked like some neighborhood in Hong Kong. Someone directed us around the corner, and we saw the deux-chevaux in an open garage, engine running and hatchback (!?) open, with two long racks of barbecued pork fitted into it where the rear seats had been. There were Chinese caterers in white scurrying all around. The new CCC: Carjacking Chinese caterers? I got really pissed off, found their boss, and was reading him the riot act, asking where the hell they got off thinking they could just grab someone’s car and use it for their business. He was very defensive, saying that the car was just perfect for their needs . . . I was still ranting when I woke up to the pre-dawn grey of the 5AM sky.

“What is that dream doing in this blog?” you may well ask. Well, it happened outthere. Go figure. The Great Spirit playing one of his/her funny impractical jokes. And maybe my mind was looking for some entertaining relief from the daily grind. And today was a grind. As probably most people who’ve climbed the “golden staircase” will tell you, it’s one of the steepest and roughest stretches of the trail. In retrospect, it wasn’t all that bad, mostly because the trail itself was generally well-maintained and the really steep part wasn’t all that long, but it was a toughie. When you get close to it, though, you find yourself looking straight up at a cliff, over the right side of which tumbles a powerful waterfall. I could only think, “now how can a trail possibly get up that?” And again, after an all-downhill day, this was all uphill. About 2300 feet (750+ m) elevation gain. Again, most of it was a relatively comfortable grade. The problem for me, I am realizing, is endurance. Generally I’ve been hiking eight hours a day with a 45-pound pack. Just a couple of hours of that, especially uphill, takes a toll on this old body. I’d like to pretend the body isn’t at all old, but this experience is definitely letting me know otherwise. Hangin in there, but as me sez, after two or three hours, can feel it for sure.

But then, there’s good support from other hikers. I remember meeting a young couple going up to Silver Pass. When I mentioned my age the gal said, “That is really great. I’m 29 and this is kicking my butt!” I need to hear stuff like that. Of course, most of the time I’m by myself, or rather on subjects like these my only companion, the Great Spirit, is conspicuously silent. Today the scenery is back on the spectacular side, especially going up the staircase. The rest stops I take provide me with plenty of visual treats.

At the top, it really gets nice. Palisade Lakes are worth the visit, even if the ways in aren’t all that easy. Just as I pulled out my camera to take pictures, Mark and Julia, the St. Louis musicians, came up and passed me. Good to see familiar faces. This section, like the other more beautiful sections of the trail, attracts a lot more people than some of the other places. Most are up here just for a loop of a few days, then out again; At this point I’m only occasionally running into the JMT through-hikers.

At the same place I saw my friends were seated a bunch of young guys who’d just come down over Mather Pass. It was early enough in the day that I thought I might still go over it today. “It’s right over there,” they said. I thought they were pointing at a fairly low ridge behind the lakes. “Wow, doesn’t look that high,” I said. “Naw, not bad,” they said. “But it is another 1600 feet up.” Didn’t look that high to me. But I decided to camp at this beautiful spot and go up rested, in the morning. Wiser, no?

There was no easy way to get down to camp near the upper lake: the trail ran high above. But I found a place with a beautiful stream nearby, rushing parallel to the cliff before twisting off to cascade down below. Near the trail on the lake side, but hidden by some scrub pines, was a sweet little sandy spot just big enough to pitch the tent and have room to cook. Set up, relaxed, and enjoyed the view. Feeling pretty good, all things considered. You generally have to be pretty rich to fall asleep looking out at views like this.
















Next Entry: Mather, schmather