August 9, 2016 Mile 1107.6-1129.7 22.1 Miles At first light I wake, pack, and set out into the cold damp morning. The light is everywhere but on me, which gives it a surreal, detached quality, like I’m looking at framed color photos. Fontanellis lake startles me when I come around a turn and the noisy thoughts in my head are interrupted by the quiet lapping of the shore. The sudden emptiness is disorienting, almost painful. I become aware at once of a sadness within me and simultaneously, a soothing presence in the beauty of the lake. I want to sit with it, to heal myself in the balm of this beauty. I settle for a half-measure, which is to stop and filter some water. It seems I am afraid to confront the sadness within me and I need something to distract myself. But the beauty is no longer available, either, not with the immediacy and intensity it was. I find myself grasping to reclaim the mental state that revealed such beauty, and it seems to slip farther away the harder I try. I stop for breakfast a while later on a glacial-polished rock and read the Thich Nhat Hanh book. A few hikers pass by and stop to chat—one introduces himself as Santa Claus, and he looks the part. He’s even wearing a big red Santa hat. Two-pack has an Australian accent. After they leave I go back to my book. Thich Nhat Hanh has just introduced a mantra for meditation: Breathing in I calm my mind, Breathing out I smile. Dwelling in the present moment, I know that this is a wonderful moment.” The lopsided rhythm of the last line irks me a bit, but the point isn’t beauty, it’s mindful attention, so I let it go and try to dwell in the present moment instead. It seems like a good mantra to hike to. The miles fly by. I catch myself in my head a lot—most of the time, actually—but I start to hang on to the present moment for slightly longer periods. I had never noticed it before, but the forest had been a place to get through on the way to the big views. Now I look at the forest for itself. The tree bark splits in furrows like erosion patterns, it scratches roughly when I brush my fingers against it. Infinitely varied, endlessly fascinating. So many small plants nestled between the trees. They don’t splash like the bright flowers of the meadows, but they ripple and flow with the soft wind, which I hadn’t noticed either. The dirt itself, stolid and inert, slopes and changes and organizes itself into patterns and designs. There is a whole world in each moment. Thoughts swirl around every observation. They are too practiced, I am too new at this way of noticing. I am lost in thought again. Some of the thoughts are delusions of becoming a Buddhist master, which make me laugh at myself when I realize that the thought itself proves that I haven’t stayed in the present moment. I have a long ways to go. After lunch my feet are killing me. My calluses softened during my week off-trail, and my feet feel like they’re starting the trail all over again. I vow to take better care of them this time and wallpaper them with Moleskin. At Barker pass there is a little cell service. Lindsey and I chat briefly, but the call fails and I can’t get through again. Keep going over the ridge. Lake Tahoe shocks me with its big blueness. Up until now Tahoe has been at a distance, through the trees. Now it fills my field of vision like an ocean. It is so bold, so intensely blue. It releases something inside me, and there is that sadness again, that desire to sit and cry. I don’t understand what that is, and I’m not ready to face it. I know how to pretend it’s not there. I keep hiking. I pass the last water source for several miles without realizing it. I’m most of the way up a set of switchbacks, trying to decide where to camp, when I do. I decide I have just enough to make dinner and have a little to spare. It’ll be close, but I dread the idea of going back for water and doing these switchbacks twice. I enter the Granite Chief wilderness and set up camp a little early. The next campsite on the map is four miles ahead, and I don’t want to hike four more miles today. After dinner Santa Claus, Two-Pack, and Trip come by to look for a place to camp. I walk over to chat with them. Two girls come out of a tent nearby when they hear us talking. Santa Claus introduces himself as Bad Santa. I’m not sure if he just changed his trailname or if I just heard him wrong when he introduced himself that morning. Somehow, with attractive girls in the mix, it seems like he might have adjusted his trailname. The girls are hiking the Tahoe Rim Trail, and we all get into a discussion about gear and foot care that lasts until I break off to make dinner.
I crawl into my sleeping bag and drink my last two sips of water. It’s going to be a true dry-camping night.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
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