The True Test

 

It was a trip designed to be a test of Beagle’s upgraded systems, turns out there were a few more questions to be answered:  Is there something wrong with me that I seek out solitude so often?  Will Opus return?  And, can I continue to choose freedom over fear?

If you have been reading along, you know that I was on the wait list at Santa Barbara Outdoor Gear to have Beagle’s lithium batteries swapped out for heated lithium batteries, the addition of a DC to DC charger, and a little something for Wurzig; ceramic tint for the windows.  Those tasks beautifully performed (as all work is) at SBOG, I could not wait to climb as high as possible into the Sierra’s and test it all out.

The first two nights I spent on my least favorite side, the west, at Lake Isabella; yet another relic of California’s fast disappearing man-made lakes.  It was depressing there with the dying trees, trickling “river” and algae filled “lake”.  Not a place to which I will return.  But I did manage to get my batteries down to 60% which would be a decent test for my DC to DC charging.

And I almost missed it.  

They charged up in about ninety minutes of driving.  This, like the lithium upgrade, is a game changer.  That means I can arrive at any new campsite with my batteries at 100%; no more pulling into an RV park for a night to charge things up.  Talk about freedom!

Confident that Beagle could handle below freezing, I headed to Bitterbrush Campground, about twelve miles west of Bishop, the only Forest Service Campground in the area open all year.  The campground sits at 6,800’, Beagle sat with her back to a lovely creek and her front facing up the valley to the snow-capped peak in the distance. 

Nights were well below freezing but there was enough solar to keep things at an acceptable level; I stayed four nights, the only camper to stay that long although every afternoon three or four others would show up just for the night. 

On day two, before heading out to hike, I set up my portable solar panels to assist with my fixed roof-top panels; I wanted to grab as much sunshine as possible.  As I was pulling away, I considered how easily someone could steal my portable panel; and how coveted they are right now.  My neighbor, two pitches down, traveling in a white panel van, circa 1960, with a hand-made chimney coming out the top wrapped in foil, watched as I packed up the dogs for the hike.  I thought about bringing in my portable panel but opted to choose freedom over fear; the additional solar power would bring me freedom of mind for the cold night ahead.

Returning later that afternoon, I was happy to see my faith in fellow campers paid off.  The solar brought my batteries to 98%.

That evening, three other sets of campers arrived and, around cocktail hour, the slow walk around the campground began along with the socializing which that often entails.  I watched from inside Beagle, listening to a Goldstein lecture on Buddhism, and wondered if there wasn’t something wrong with me.  Why do I always choose solitude over socializing?  But then I wondered, “Do extroverts questions why they don’t like to be alone?”  Maybe they should.  Why is it that the introverts feel the need to explain themselves? 

Things that make you go, “Hmmmm.” 

I was content, that is all that mattered and I didn’t feel like talking.

I spent the days trying to hike old favorites but was thwarted by roads closed for the winter.  I did find a new favorite, The Palisades, recommended to me by the clerk at one of the five (five!) outdoor gear shops in Bishop—no wonder I love it there.  The lead picture is of the Palisades Glacier hike, this one is what Opus and I looked like the entire time:

Although I was often hiking on snow, only one hike required my newly purchased ice-spikes.  A wonderful invention made of rubber and steel—the rubber part fitting over your boots anchoring the steel teeth to the bottom.  A necessity when hiking over ice fields.

It took me two times of slipping and gliding down ice fields to remember that I had the spikes.  Once attached to my boots, I cruised along like I was hot shit, practically running across the top of the snow and ice until, Thunk!  Post hole.

Post hole is a term I learned in Colorado:  For you non-hikers, it is how you describe the moment when you feel like one of your legs has disappeared.  You are walking along and then Thunk!  Down goes one of your legs, deep into the snow.  Usually at least to the knee, although I have had plenty of times when one leg was buried to mid-thigh.  These spots usually occur when (unbeknownst to you obviously) the snow is covering a field of small boulders and/or downed trees.

Now, since I was cruising along thinking I was the bee’s knees, when my right leg disappeared, my momentum kept me flying forward, causing my shin to hit a snow-buried boulder.  It smarted, and certainly slowed me down, but I continued to post-hole at least five more times before I stopped for lunch.  (It is tiring to heave your pack-laden body up with one leg.)

After refreshing myself, I decided to turn back; in an attempt to keep a sense of humor, I thought I would count the number of times I post-holed.  On the seventh one, as I was pushing with my left leg to haul my right leg up out of the hole, there was a second “thunk” and down went my left leg. 

At that point, I just leaned my butt against the snow-bank and laughed. 

The only way I knew to get out of a double post-hole was to roll to one side and drag my legs up together.  Which I did, and was rewarded by a lick on the nose from Opus.

Yes, Opus was off leash almost the entire time during the hikes.  He has become a great off-leash trail dog, coming when called and allowing himself to be leashed up again.  Quite unbelievable, I know, for those of you who have spent time chasing him.  But never fear, he has not lost his devilishness.

One morning, as I opened Beagle’s door to go get the dog food, a white blur shot between my legs.  I think he may have said, “Thank you very much”, but I cannot be sure as he was about one-hundred yards away before I realized it was Opus gone a huntin’.

I had a quick shot of panic and called out few hopeless, “Opus, come!” ‘s before I started to make my coffee.  I kept one eye on him; we were well away from the highway with a creek behind us, my only fear was of him attacking a bear.  But he was intent on a squirrel hole a few yards from the front door.  So I sat with my coffee and watched his little white tail jerk excitedly back and forth, head down, dirt flying between his legs, and tried to comfort River.  After about twenty minutes, I grabbed the Dentastix bag, rustled it a little and called, “Opus, hunting cookies!” and he ran right over.

I considered keeping him leashed on the hike that day but decided it would be better to allow him his freedom.  After all, he did return.  We hiked along a creek and were rewarded with birdsong for the first time of that trip--Spring was definitely in the air!

At the end of the hike, as I was getting River out of the car so we could all go play in the snow for a while, a fellow hiker began to ask me questions about the snow quality, depth, etc.  Turns out he was heading in to camp at the lake (my guess is it would have been at least a three-mile hike in from where we parked in front of the “road closed” sign—usually the road takes you right to the lake) and wondered if his sled of camp wood would be able to glide the entire time.  I assured him that it would, the snow was deep and nicely packed, “I never even post-holed once!” I exclaimed.  Then I noticed his gear:  Backpack clearly with bedroll and tent, really nice snow-worthy leather hiking boots (I did have some boot envy although I love mine, his were obviously meant for more snow than dirt), and the aforementioned sled filled with wood.  He was packing in and pulling a sled and, you guessed it, all alone.  Testing his love of solitude more than I could ever imagine.

Introverts united.  But don’t blink.

-K

PS:  This trip ended just before Alan’s birthday which, of course, had me thinking of him often.  I don’t believe that he is “watching over me” but I do imagine that, if he was, he would be proud of how I choose to live.  But not as proud as he would be of Opus.