August 8, 2016 Mile 1081.5-1107.6 26.1 Miles How quickly routines become habits; how quickly they are destroyed! Only one week of waking before the sun to beat the heat in the desert, and it seems to have stuck with me here in the Sierra. A week away from packing has atrophied that routine. I’m back to deciding what to put away next, and my brain is sluggish because my body has forgotten how to sleep on the ground. I tossed and turned most of the night, unable to find a comfortable position. As I noisily stuff my pack, I hear Katie doing the same. She sets off first. The pre-dawn light is peaceful, quiet. I set off in a trance. The forest feels sacred and I step lightly as if walking on hallowed ground. After a while the sky glows brighter. I come over the lip of a wooded basin and a dog barks in the distance below me. I weave my way down among the Douglas firs to the floor of the basin, where the trees spread apart. The aroma of woodsmoke. A dog is barking, closer now. A turn in the trail reveals a campsite. The dog is held by the collar as it barks at me and a small group of people appear to be making breakfast, tending the fire, and accomplishing other camp chores. At a junction, Katie is checking her map. She tells me that the dog came running at her, acting aggressive. She’s pissed. I pass on, still enjoying the trance-inducing quiet of the morning. A while later I stop for breakfast at a granite outcropping next to where the trail begins some switchbacks down. There is a stunning view of Lake Tahoe, my first so far, glimmering in the morning sun. Katie passes by without seeing me, and I don’t call out because I am enjoying the solitude too much this morning. Besides, she and Felix are resupplying in South Lake Tahoe today, and I’m going to keep going. Temporary friends. I won’t see either of them again, today or ever. Continuing down, I am surprised to find how close I am to a road (Three years from now, I will stop at this road on my way to Matterhorn Peak and provide three hikers with a ride to town). The trail passes between a number of colorful cabins, many constructed and decorated to resemble the ski-huts of different snowbound countries. One resembles a Swiss chateau, another has Norwegian rosemåling among its eaves, a third resembles a German Alpenhütte. I wander through this foreign land and think ‘this is temporary too.’ The houses and trees disappear all at once and I am walking through a gravel parking lot. Sunlight glares off the hoods of a thousand polished cars and I feel exposed and attacked. Clean, well-dressed families look at me and quickly glance away as if to simply look at me might spread the filth. I’m not even very dirty yet. My bubble of solitude has been popped, rudely and violently, and I shrink into myself. There is a store that serves fresh paninis here, and although I feel uncomfortable amongst all these families on their hygienic holiday, I know that I won’t get this chance again for awhile. People walk by me by the dozen while I sit on a log and eat my panini and read my book, but no one speaks to me. I slowly come out of solitude and begin to wish for interaction. Everything is temporary, even—especially—my moods. After my early lunch, the trail is crawling with people. This is where all of those cars spilled their owners. Despite the crowds, the lake is serene. Small cabins dot the shores and a small motorboat ferries from cabin to store and back. I find myself dreaming about bringing Lindsey here, sometime in the off-season, getting a cabin and bringing a stack of books to read. Near the end of the first lake two old men with overnight backpacks let me pass and one of them jokes that I need to stop speeding. An hour later I’m breaking on a log near the top of the climb and the two men, probably brothers for how similar they look, stop and chat. “You look like a thru-hiker,” the first one says. “Guilty. But I’ve showered recently.” They both laugh. “Where are you hiking?” “Oh, we’re just going to Aloha lake. We’ll spend a couple days there. We brought our chairs.” This last line is delivered with mischief—each has an aluminum-framed beach chair strapped to their backpack. I chuckle. “That looks relaxing.” I’m a little jealous. I still have a lot of miles to hike today. I continue sitting on my log for another twenty minutes, which feels like an hour. I’m reading Thich Nhat Hanh’s slim book “Every Step is Peace.” It seemed like a good book to bring on a hike. Every couple paragraphs I look down at the basin below me, two sapphire lakes pooled in an enormous bowl. It’s breathtaking. I find it hard to believe that this place is accessible by dayhike, so close to the Bay Area. Someday after we move back there, I hope to come visit here with Lindsey. I finally set off and climb over the lip of the basin. Forest obscures the views except for a couple picturesque tarns along the way. Those tarns help bring me out of my head and remind me that I haven’t been present during the forest. I try again. I feel each step in the soles of my feet as I walk, I look out and try to notice the patterns of light and dark in the trees. It is pleasant and easy for a little while, but before I know it I’m back in the trance of my own thoughts. I’m not sure how long I walk like that. When I awaken again, it is because a lake cuts through my trance like a diamond. Aloha Lake. It looks less like an established lake and more like the landscape has been flooded. Hundreds of granite islands, some with bonsai-twisted foxtail pines, stick up through the water. Behind, massive mountains are carved in great sweeping strokes out of a single piece of granite. Here there be dragons, I think to myself. I pause to take it all in and make a promise to myself: I have to bring Lindsey here. (Two years later, I do—and she brings our daughter along in her belly). The altitude is giving me a headache, so I find a place close to the water to eat a second lunch and pop a couple of aspirin. After lunch I sink back into my thoughts, as much as I try to stay present. They aren’t about much, just the same tired repetitions of old stories. I surface only occasionally. I descend an overflow outlet of Aloha lake, hike around Susie lake, climb up a long slope towards Dick’s Pass—I emerge from my walking slumber to take pictures here. There is a fantastic view of Susie Lake and Aloha Lake with Dick’s peak off to the right and Pyramid Peak in the background. There is also cell phone service, and I chat with Lindsey and text my friend Brian. His girlfriend’s name is Susie, so I send him a picture of Susie Lake and caption it. “Inappropriate,” he replies. Is he joking? My cell service has disappeared, so our conversation is cut off there. I start to worry that I’ve offended him. The climb and the miles have exhausted me again. I’m thinking in a haze. Luckily it’s downhill from here and there are campsites marked just a couple miles ahead, next to Dick’s Lake. I plod down and find a campsite near the northern shore. While I’m making dinner, three college-aged guys set up their tents nearby. We exchange a couple of pleasantries, but I’m way too tired and I’ve spent too much time in my head today to make decent conversation. They seem like they might feel the same way, because they climb into their tents without making dinner. I try to read in my tent for a little bit, but my head still aches and I’m too fatigued to even hold the book up. I’m grateful for sleep when it comes.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
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