July 15, 2016 No PCT miles ~5 miles We only sleep like the dead for a couple hours before I am awake again. People are talking and laughing, loudly. I sit up and look through the mesh of my tent and see a large bonfire close to the restaurant. People are clustered around in a couple groups, but I’m bleary and it’s hard to make out individuals. I check my watch: 12:30am. Try to go back to sleep. Someone moans uncomfortably in a nearby tent. Night terrors or illness, I can’t tell. Another neighbor suffers from an uncomfortable insomnia, expressed by the noisy slide of artificial fabrics every few minutes as he rolls back and forth. All these people, all these noises. I slip back down and manage to string together enough broken sleep that I feel moderately rested when we emerge from the tent in the morning. A smoky haze has replaced the mountain air and makes everything look twice as far away. I order two breakfasts at the restaurant, Lindsey orders one. I finish both of mine and help her finish hers. A hotshot crew sits in the booth next to us and with a little eavesdropping I learn that the fire is only a couple miles away. It’s not large, relatively speaking, but it picked up a bit overnight because the helicopters that have been dumping water on it aren’t allowed to operate at night. It sounds like there isn’t much danger to the resort unless the wind changes, and the volunteer firefighters think that’s unlikely in this weather. Lindsey and I have most of the day before Brian and Suzy arrive, so we decide to hike a four-mile trail down to Mono Hot Springs. We bring a bag of snacks and a water bottle apiece. The trail slopes gently downhill through peaceful meadows and shady forest. After weeks of hauling my pack, I feel buoyant without it. Lindsey and I talk about all of the books we have read while we’ve been apart for the past month. We cross a creek and consider going for a dip—it’s a hot day—but we decide to wait until our return trip. The trail spits us out on a dirt road with a few dispersed campsites. There doesn’t appear to be anyone around, just cars and tents. We continue a short way to an asphalt road in disrepair. Which way? I guess right. We find ourselves at another little store, restaurant, and single-story hotel. It’s only slightly more built up than Vermilion Valley Resort. We don’t see the springs anywhere, though there are a lot more people here. We cross the street to a campground. It’s bustling; every campsite has a group of seven or eight people, it seems, and children are playing everywhere. We guess the direction again and find ourselves lost in a dead end. Doubling back, we stop a friendly-looking guy.
“Excuse me, do you know which way the hot springs are?” “I’m heading there, follow me.” He takes us down to a river, where we remove our shoes and socks to cross. The hot springs are right there on the other side. We start in a small cement pool, just big enough for three or four people. Our guide starts telling us about different drug trips he’s been on. Interesting as far as it goes, but after we’ve tried to change the conversation a couple of times without success, we decide to explore the other springs. Most of the others are full of people, but it’s too hot anyway, so we decide to dip in the river instead. We watch families go by in innertubes and floaties. Others play on the beach and swim in the deep water. It’s a busy swimming hole, but there is plenty of room for everyone. When the chill of the water gets us to shivering, we go for lunch at the restaurant. Like VVR, it’s expensive, but I don’t get many town days and I’m already losing weight, so a veggie burger and french fries are oh so worth it. We decide to take the road back to VVR in the hope that we can hitch a ride from someone. Unlike the gently graded, direct trail, the road winds every direction, including steeply up and down. We are alone on the road for twenty minutes, and the first car passes without stopping. Another fifteen minutes before the next car does the same. We resign ourselves to walking the whole way. Alongside the road are a series of tin roofs on cinder block walls. The walls are square and low to the ground with no door or hatch for entrance. We try to figure out what they could be while we climb and descend hill after hill. A little later we hear gunfire in a gully off the road. It sounds close. Probably just someone having some fun with target practice, but we have no idea what direction its aimed, so it makes us nervous. We try to hurry past the area, but it still sounds close no matter how far we hike. A third vehicle approaches and we stick out our thumbs. It stops! An old cowboy looks out at us over a handlebar mustache. “Where ya headed?” “Vermilion Valley Resort.” “I gotta take somethin’ to th’other side of the lake first, but if ya don’t mind the side trip, I can take ya.” We climb into the bed of a 1950s-era pickup. A large piece of plywood covers most of the rusted-out bottom; we can see the road through the uncovered areas. Near the cab there are a few tools and a leather saddle with stirrups. He knows the road like an old friend and drives us quickly and smoothly, easily avoiding the worst potholes. When we arrive at a junction, he stops the truck and calls back “I gotta go up that way for a bit, but Vermilion is only a half mile down that road.” We thank him and hop out of the truck. Back at the camp, we decide to take a nap. An hour later, I sit up and look out of the tent. Right on time, I see Brian’s forest green jeep drive up. We pack up our stuff to move into the tent cabin that he and Suzy have rented for the next two nights. Hugs all around. I’ve asked Brian to bring me a book: The Buried Giant by Kazuo Ishiguro. “The bookstore didn’t have it,” he says, “so I got this instead.” I stare at the slim volume—The Hardy Boys—that will probably take me an hour to read. Oh shit, I’m going to be so bored. “Thank you…” I say, but I can tell it’s not very convincing. I look up to see a grin on his face. He pulls “The Buried Giant” from behind his back. Evening falls, and we walk down to the shore to watch a colorful sunset (painted by the smoke from the nearby fire) and a colony of bats that swoops and dips to catch mosquitoes and other insects. We walk back to our tent cabin in the dark, make dinner around a campfire, and then retreat into the tent, where I read us all to sleep in a very dramatic voice: passages from The Hardy Boys.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
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