June 23, 2016 Mile 702-725 I am surprised that I don’t have a hangover after yesterday’s all-day drink-a-thon. When I leave Kennedy Meadows, most of the camp is still asleep, including Jim and Danielle. I hope they catch up later today. A short road walk leads me back to the trail, and then I wander through a meadow. It’s quiet out except for a few bird calls. I’m still close to town, but there is no engine noise or much of anything else. In fact, I suddenly realize only one or two cars passed all day yesterday, despite the fact that the town’s main road ran right next to the porch on which we sat and talked. I pass a campground and a metal box for a trail register. I open it to see who has come through here, not that I’ll recognize any of the names. Inside are two unopened Coors Light. Coors Lights? Coorses Light? I guess this is a case where the adjective comes after the noun, so Coors should be the pluralized word. Coorses Light seems to be both correct and hilarious. I chuckle and look over the register. It’s mostly names that I don't recognize, as expected, but it looks like Zippee came through last night. I decide not to bring the Coorses Light with me. It crosses my mind to just chug one right now, at seven in the morning, just for the freedom from convention, but then I’d be responsible for packing it out, and I don’t think I’ll have room in my bear canister. Besides, it’s Coors Light. A small footbridge crosses a babbling river. If you were to ask me where my love affair with the Sierra began, I’d have to tell you that it was with the water. Somehow, the sound of water in the Sierra is more mellifluous than anywhere else in the world. When, after three or four days in the High Sierra, I invariably receive the gift of apophenia, the voices that I hear just out of reach are elvish, or at least how I imagine elvish voices must sound. The sound of Sierra water is what pulls me out of my blindfolded internal monologue and opens my senses to the magic all around me. The fountains and brooks and rills are the cantus firmus upon which the birdcalls and wind in the trees work their counterpoint. And this little river, singing and chuckling against the rocks, is the opening motif for a symphony—more Mozartian elegance than Beethovenish majesty, but every bit a masterwork. Yeah, it’s fair to say that I’m excited to enter the Sierra Nevada. I pass a couple of male hikers and they pass me over the next few miles of uphill. By midmorning, we have all reached a long meadow, framed from behind by our first snow-capped peak. We exchange photography duties, chat briefly, then depart separately I stop for a snack a little later, and even though I’m by myself, I don’t feel alone. Around lunch time, I come to an arched bridge over a sandy, slow-moving stream. Seven or eight hikers sit nearby: some eat lunch, some filter water, and a few just sit and chat. The heat has steadily risen all morning, so most of the hikers have found spots in the shade. Zippee is here, and I’m surprised to have caught up to her already. I eat lunch and settle into a heat-induced stupor. It feels so nice to just rest here with my shoes off. Everyone else seems to feel the same, because we all linger long after lunch and water are taken care of. Eventually, hikers peel off one at a time and continue on. Each one recedes into the distance for thirty minutes or so before finally disappearing around a curve. A new group of hikers arrives. Their bustle makes me feel lazy, so I finally muster the energy to get up and get going. Granite is more plentiful here, as is the forest. Stripped trees stand like stolid soldiers between suppler pines and firs. I begin to climb. And climb. And climb. Each set of switchbacks zigzags toward a sloped ridge. Just as we approach the ridge and can see the other side, the trail switches back. It continues uphill, but not as quickly as the top of the ridge. The trail switches back again, heads toward the new, higher point along the ridge, teases me with another view over the top, then repeats it all again. At least the view is pretty. I’ve climbed high enough to have a commanding view of this part of the Sierra Nevada. It’s blanketed with dark green forest, with putting green patches of meadow scattered throughout. No lakes yet, but the wide view is still spectacular. On one of the last flat sections of the day, I catch up with Zippee again. We break and chat for a little bit, then start a climb.
“Why don’t you go first,” she says, “I think you’re a little faster than me.” I start out first, and the first few switchbacks are okay, but then the climb starts in earnest. I’m dead, and I feel it in my cells. I have to pull to the side and let Zippee pass. About a half hour later, I catch up to her sitting with two other hikers, setting up for dinner at a campsite. Dapper Dan tells us how he plans to continue on after dinner because he doesn’t want to attract bears. This is standard advice—bears are attracted to cooking smells, and it makes sense to camp somewhere else. But as Zippee points out, someone else is probably going to camp here. There are so many through-hikers coming through the area right now, that wherever we end up camping will probably have been some other hiker’s dinner spot. Dapper Dan laughs and agrees that she's probably right. The other hiker is quiet while he eats. He packs up and leaves with no more than a few words. He seems tired. We all understand; it’s been an intense climb nearly all day. Zippee and I reach the crest at about the same time, and we decide to look for a campsite together. We come upon Camel, who is a small asian female, and her hiking partner No Shit, who got his name by making it over 500 miles without having to take a shit in the woods. Zippee has met them before, but for me it’s the first time. They both stay in their tents to avoid the mosquitoes that have recently emerged, but they are friendly and easy to talk to. Three more hikers arrive a little while later and set up camp with us, bringing our campsite to seven people. We all stay up a little past dark, talking from our tents. I drift off while the conversation continues around me.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
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