July 19, 2016 Mile 906.7-923.1 16.4 miles A moral quandary: when a non-tangible good or service is received and the seller never comes to collect payment, is one still obligated to find a way to pay? We stayed the night in the Red’s Meadow campground; it's a private campground, and a sign told us that someone would come by to collect payment. We took our site early in the evening and no one came by. Now it’s morning, and I wonder whether I’m morally obligated to pay. This isn't really an issue, of course: we have no intention of waiting around or searching for someone to pay. If we can get away without paying, we will, and without guilt. But as we set off toward the Devil's Postpile, my mind spins with interesting questions about ownership and social norms. For instance, is ownership only possible because of social norms? It can't be a natural law, unless it's just power, and it certainly doesn't seem to be based in personal belief. If I walk into a jewelry store and steal a bunch of diamonds, even if I believe they are mine now, almost no one would agree that they are mine. If the diamonds were given to me in someone’s will, almost everyone would agree that they are mine once the will is executed, even before I become aware of it. It seems to be the community’s beliefs that gives legs to the ownership concept. I start to follow a line of thinking about laws—are they anything more than codified social norms?—and I quickly lose the thread in a tangle as I try to follow different types of laws to their first principles. My thinking is generally clearer and more focused out in the wild, but even out here I can only follow a line for so long before my mind starts to wander. After a short confusion about which dirt road and trail to take, we find ourselves staring up at tall hexagonal basalt columns, pressed together like an MC Escher drawing. Lindsey and I go up to them, place our hands against the cool stone. At the base, a pile of fallen pillars resembles an enormous, petrified pile of grated cheese. The trail is lined with toppled giants. We follow it around several outgrowths of these enormous rock crystals, remnants of geological forces far more potent than laws and social norms, then finally away into the woods. The PCT and the JMT split here, the first time that’s happened since they joined back near Mt. Whitney. I’ve wanted to see the PCT section here for a while, but Lindsey has never been on this portion of the JMT. I’m long past worrying about whether an alternate route will ruin my thru-hike; jumping back and forth on trail has already made a continuous through impossible for this year, and this is one of the standard alternates anyway. Most PCT hikers, myself included, will also divert off the main path to visit Crater Lake in Oregon. Besides, isn’t the structure of the trail, and of a thru-hike, just another example of a socially-held belief? It’s not like the trail is a first principle, or the result of a geological force like the Devil’s Postpile. We turn up the JMT, and I have a moment of regret for the path I didn’t take. We climb up a gentle slope through woods that hint at a view to the northeast. Dappled shade covers us and we are alone with only the crunch of our trail runners. Even water, which has been so plentiful for the past three hundred miles of trail, has become still and silent. A lake speckled with lily-pads floats out of the trees, but the creek that feeds it is nowhere to be found. A bright meadow appears to our left, and then the trees begin to spread apart, gradually exposing us to increasing sunlight. On our right appear the Trinity Lakes, then Gladys lake, where I can still remember the electric hum of mosquitoes from a night spent near the shore eight years ago. We have reached the top of a pass that is too low to have a name, and now we plunge through switchbacks that never end. When we finally get to the bottom, someone has shit right along the side of the trail and left a large pile of toilet paper. Lindsey and I sneer in disgust and complain about the selfishness of some people, ruining things for everyone. I briefly revisit social norms and think of a Bob Dylan quote that I’ve always loved: “To live outside the law you must be honest.” As much as I love casting aside social norms and strictures in the wilderness, there are principles that transcend that. Maybe someone had an emergency and didn’t have time to get off the trail, but leaving toilet paper and not burying the poop is just an asshole move. We pass near Shadow Lake, and now I have two layers of memories to revisit and reprocess: my JMT trip with Brian, and another trip with my Dad—my very first backpacking trip. It’s a miracle that I decided to keep backpacking; not only did the bears steal our food, but the mosquitoes were the worst I've ever experienced and we carried so much weight that our feet ached continuously. And yet, there were moments of beauty that were so magical that none of that mattered in the end. I would face those mosquitoes and bears and achy feet again and again to touch that magic one more time. We stop at the inlet to Shadow lake for water, in the same place that my dad and I filtered water for the very first time. I remember how striking the Sierra water tasted that first time, and the memory heightens my attention as I take my first sip. The layers of association deepen my experience. I realize with a moment of insight that this is the reason why musicians enjoy classical music more than most. We have layers upon layers of association. On the purely musical level: texture and timbre comparisons, form and harmony analyses, phrasing structure, rhythmic associations, dynamic awareness, national and ethnic categories, historical eras and influences. Then there is the personal history: memories of attending concerts or hearing a piece for the first time, overcoming related technical challenges, practice time spent shaping phrases and working with the nuances of style, performances, and a million other details of personal experience that help a piece of music to come alive. Expectations and predictions come gushing forth without effort, and a well-crafted piece of music continues to surprise and delight long after the first listen (this is also why most musicians I know avoid the “ear-worm” variety of pop music found on top-40 radio. The surprises are all spent after the first listen.) My mind is spinning quickly now, and I make the connection back to trails. I've wondered in the past why some trails simply bore me to tears, and others never seem to lose my interest. Now it’s apparent that it has everything to do with complexity, experience, and the number of associations I’m able to make. Features like lakes, streams, and erosion patterns provide me with endless fascination. As I spend more time out here, I’m starting to see more differences between rocks and trees and similar types of flowers, and so new layers of association are building up. These places where I’ve been before have added memories, and so I enjoy them even more. Immersion allows us to parse subtleties that were invisible to us before. Experience gives us personal memories. Together, these lead to increasing enjoyment and mastery. We start a long climb away from Shadow Lake. The uphill struggle floods my body and mind with endorphins, and I start to free associate on the themes of mastery, immersion, and the parsing of subtleties. At the same time I am constantly comparing the landscape to my memories of it. I try to explain all of these ideas to Lindsey, but it comes out as a combination of jumbled mess and obvious banalities, and I think Lindsey begins to doubt my sanity. This is a common occurrence for us. My insights seem so potent to me, but I seem unable to adequately fit language to them. My revery is broken by the startling snort of a horse. Someone says “Detour,” but it takes me a second to pick out the drab olive clothing from the background. Two women are dressed in forest service uniforms. One is seated on a horse, the other on a rock with an open metal lunchbox beside her. “We’re doing some trailwork,” says the one on the horse, “can you guys go around here?” “Yeah, no problem,” I say. It seems like I should say more, but I don’t. We climb up and around them, and they quickly disappear from view. Out of my reverie and back in the present, Lindsey and I carry on an easy conversation. We’re back on the topic of children, sort of. This time we're talking about what we want to do before we have children. Places we want to travel, adventures we want to have, more degrees we want to earn, new careers we want to begin. It spins out of control so fast that we have to rein ourselves in. But there will always be something else to do before having kids, we say after each time we get carried away. Some of those adventures can wait for later. I have faith that later won’t become never, like it does for most people. We are both pretty intentional about our lives. The silver sound of water gradually increases to a white roar. Soon we are climbing next to cascading staircases of water. It is overwhelming, both in volume and beauty. We fall into a reverent silence; we become a single point of awareness. The trail climbs again, away from water. We stop for lunch at a rock looking east over the area. After lunch we cross over a shoulder into the basin of Ruby Lake. Dark granite streaked with weeping snowmelt plunges deep into the water. The trail crosses the opposite shore. Another climb to Emerald lake, and yet another to Garnet, which affords a picturesque view of Banner and Ritter Peaks. We take another break for water. Strange alien noises come across the expansive lake. It takes a minute before I’m able to pick out a man sitting in the shade of a twisted foxtail pine across the way. I can’t tell why he's making the noises, but he appears to be baiting a fishing hook and under no duress. We make our final climb for the day up to the postcard-perfect Thousand Island Lake. We set up our tent in a flat sandy spot nestled in the granite batholith above the northwestern shore. We have neighbors on both sides, but they are both a couple hundred yards away. I can pick out tents scattered all around the lake; this is a popular area.
We are both tired and find spots to lean against the warm rocks with our books. It’s still early afternoon, so we alternate between periods of reading and long moments staring in awe at the stunning landscape until it’s time for dinner. Every half hour or so, one of us sighs at the incredible expanse of beauty before us.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
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