June 28, 2016 Mile 788.3-811.3 I pack up quietly in the early light; none of the nearby tents are stirring. As I hoist my pack, I hear Sprinkler rolling over, so I venture a guess that she’s at least partly awake. “Hey Sprinkler, I’m headed out.” “Wait.” She unzips her tent door and pokes her face out. She squints at me with bleary eyes. “You’re taking off?” “Yeah. I’ll miss hiking with you. I’ve enjoyed it,” I say. "I wish that there was some chance that I’d catch up to you later, but that seems pretty unlikely.” “Yeah, there’s pretty much no chance,” she chuckles. “Unless you decide to skip a bunch of the trail. You could always go back and do it afterward.” Part of me wants to consider it—hiking alone for so long was hard on me, and I don’t know how long it will be before I find another friend with a similar pace. “Tempting, but I want to finish knowing that I’ve hiked the whole trail.” “Yeah, I get that,” she says. “Let’s keep in touch, though.” “Yeah.” “Have a great hike.” “Thanks, you too.” I feel lonely almost immediately. Within a couple miles I have a spectacular view of Charlotte lake and no one to share it with. Friendship has always been difficult for me. I’ve found it easier with women than with men, but that’s fraught with its own risks. With men, there seems to be a constant striving for dominance. I don’t think it’s exclusively the domain of men, but it seems to play a much larger role in their self-esteem. I try not to do that myself, but the impulse for self-determination involves a natural resistance. Dominance compels submission, and to fight against submission puts me naturally at odds with anyone who plays at that game, no matter how subtly or skillfully. With women, the game of power is still present, but it has a different form. My own self-determination is rarely taken as a challenge to dominance, and friendship can proceed without a pecking order. This, of course, is a generalization, as I have several male friends who don’t view everything as a competition, and I also know many females who do. Generally speaking, though, it has always been easier for me to make friends with women, from as early as junior high. Of course, that leads to natural problems with cis-gendered, straight, opposite sex friends. Let’s catalogue those for a moment: There’s mutual attraction, which is no problem if both people are single. There’s one-sided attraction, which makes a friendship difficult in proportion to the strength of attraction and any expectations engendered. Finally, there’s a lack of attraction, which seems like it would be the easiest, except that neither party ever knows fully what the other is thinking, so both sides are trying to make it clear that they aren’t romantically interested without being rude or dismissive. Like I said, friendship is difficult. I think that both Sprinkler and I are in the last camp. I think it’s fair to say that she would be considered attractive by most men, but I was never interested, primarily because I’m very happily married but also because I just didn’t feel that attraction towards her. I never got the feeling that she was attracted to me, either, but I still felt as if I had to do and say certain things that made it clear that I was happily married and not interested romantically. As I climb up Glen Pass, I start to wonder if maybe I had been overstating the obvious, and had even been a little rude at times. I have a propensity to overanalyze every last word and action. Hiking with a friend is a distraction from that: perhaps that’s one of the things that I liked best about it. I reach a small frozen pond in an enclosed basin on my way up to Glen Pass, and the next few switchbacks are excruciating. I am completely out of energy. I stop and make breakfast as a few other hikers pass me. .I continue the climb after breakfast, which is made more difficult by patches of snow and ice covering the trail. Eventually I reach the top of Glen Pass and look out over a rocky basin filled with snow and lakes. Two groups of hikers are here; one is a group of three guys who are just departing. The other, of three girls smoking a bowl. I sit a short distance away from both of them and eat some snacks. I can see around 20 different specks of people dispersed along the approaching trail. Their smallness puts the largeness of the basin in perspective. An older man comes up the trail from behind us, gazes out at the lakes below and says, with genuine admiration “Wow, look at that port-a-potty blue!” Everyone on the pass bursts out laughing. The descent is a little scary due to soft, slippery snow and steep slopes. My trail-runners are soaked in minutes, but the weather is warm and I’m not too concerned. As I descend further, the snow turns to slush, then to water. It runs across and over the trail with aplomb. Occasionally, a well-constructed section of trail funnels the water and becomes a creek itself; at least in those places I can walk on the large rocks on the sides. Nonetheless, where the water has receded, magnificent wildflowers and meadows have sprung up in its place. .The descent is fast, and I am level with the Rae Lakes before I realize it. People are everywhere, and I skim along their edges with a quick “hello” or “excuse me”, depending on their direction. I find myself aching for conversation but giving little effort at beginning it. The Rae Lakes are a particularly stunning section of the Sierra, and I am overawed, but I can’t quite sink all the way in. It’s like I’m stuck on the surface, or seeing them through a picture frame. Onwards, alongside Arrowhead lake, then Dollar lake, where Brian and I camped many years ago, and still down. Occasionally I come out of my trance to take in the surroundings, but mostly I am lost in thought, analyzing past wrongs and misunderstandings. Finally I reach the Woods Creek bridge—a large, bouncing suspension bridge—and the end of the downhill. I stop for lunch at a large open area before crossing, grab a bucket of water and launder some of my clothes. A group of high-school aged girls show up with a mom, and I’m suddenly self-conscious about sitting here in my underwear while my clothes dry. There’s nothing to be done for it, though, so I just read my book and finish my lunch. Eventually, they move on. After lunch, the trail turns right to follow Woods Creek uphill. Water is spilling all over the trail, and it becomes pointless to try to keep my shoes dry. I just plod on through creek after creek, and hope my blisters don’t get any more infected. A couple hours later, I emerge from the main valley to dryer, flatter trail, and the rain begins. Thunder rumbles occasionally, but mostly it’s just a light sprinkle of rain. I pull out my umbrella and rain pants and keep hiking. The thunder abates in the early evening, and I eventually cross up over Pinchot Pass. That’s two passes in one day! But I’m feeling it. I am completely exhausted. I set a goal of making it to the King’s River, for which King’s Canyon is named, just a few more miles away. About a mile from my goal, I come across a deep, powerful creek, rushing hard through a narrow passage. I head a ways downstream, but there is no crossing. I try upstream, but there’s still no crossing. I stop for a while and consider where I could camp. The last acceptable spot was about a half mile back, and I’m not eager to turn around. I look at the pounding creek again. God I’m tired.
There is a path that looks like it’s probably possible, but it will require a pretty big leap on some wet rocks, from a higher one to a lower one where the stream narrows slightly. I’d prefer to toss my pack across first, but I don’t think I can toss it that far, as tired as I am. Even if I were fresh, throwing my pack that far would be just as likely to break it as not. I decide, despite my better judgment, to go for it. I make my way across the first few wet rocks, carefully climb to the higher, drier rock, and scan the slightly lower rock for a good landing place. It doesn’t look that slippery, but that’s something I’ve learned not to depend on. How many times have I learned that lesson? At least the water isn’t flowing over it, it’s just wet from the spray. I stare at it for a full minute, still deciding whether it might not be better, safer, to turn around and hike the half-mile back. After all, the water will be lower in the morning, won’t it? In the end, I don’t know why I decide to take the risk, despite my own better judgment. I leap as hard as I can, and immediately I can tell it won’t be enough. My leg muscles are heavy like lead. I extend my forward leg as far as it can go, and it looks like it might barely catch the nearest, wettest corner of the rock. My mind flashes forward to a shattered shin bone as my foot slips and my entire body weight crushes my leg against the corner of the rock. Except, miraculously, it doesn’t. In fact, my foot doesn’t slip at all. It catches the corner and bears my weight, springing me forward onto the rock and across onto the grassy hill behind. I don’t even stumble, but I still pause to let the adrenaline die down and to reflect on my good fortune. That was stupid, I tell myself. What the fuck. Don’t pull that shit again. It seems like my better judgment has taken control again, albeit a little late in the game. I hike onward and camp just before the King’s River. One other hiker is camped nearby, but we both eat and camp alone.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
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