Ode to Ghost Rider

 Bob Scott Campground, Nevada

Two months ago a friend suggested I read Neil Peart’s memoir Ghost Rider.  I started it two weeks ago and have found it to be equal parts solace and inspiration.  After Neil’s daughter and wife died (separately) within ten months of each other he was close to suicidal.  He took off on his BMW motorcycle and chronicled his grief and growth in this well-written book of adventure.  I highly recommend it to anyone but particularly to people who have lost a spouse.

Neil's love of being on the road matches mine and his stories made me want to leave as soon as possible.  There is no measurement for grief, but losing a spouse is not something people understand until they, sadly, come to know.  There is great solace for me in reading his words; I do not feel so alone.  In addition, he and I have traveled on many of the same roads, including my route today which, on the Nevada road map, is labeled “The Loneliest Road in America”.  I kid you not.

As is usual for both Neil and myself, I was anxious to get on the road this morning.  But I made myself take time for a walk with the Noses over to the Mono Lake Visitor Center (closed for winter) where we took a few minutes to sit on a bench and enjoy the view. 

Sitting there, I was filled with gratitude for living on this planet and enjoyed noticing how the pixels aligned themselves into tall, distant mountains, then closer, rolling hills, then the water, then the islands and the birds.  I felt a pang when I realized I would love to share that moment with someone; someone I trust who is different from me.  Their perception of the morning might bring about even more appreciation.  That, to me, is one of the greatest parts of sharing your life with someone—it makes the world twice as big and twice as beautiful.

I found myself talking to Alan which is a rare thing indeed; I have often yelled at him over the past few years but rarely do I speak to him.  This morning I said, “I hope you are somewhere as magnificent as this planet, sitting with Rosco and enjoying your place.”  Just like Neil would, I let myself cry which felt good. 

And then I realized that I had thought of Alan as not being on Earth. 

For the first time.

Ever. 

In over three years.   

And so I borrowed a phrase from Neil who simply said, when he walked back into his house after months on the road and saw pictures of his wife and daughter, “I know.”

After saying goodbye to my camp neighbors, I set off down an unfamiliar highway.  It was early and there were very few cars.  Just a long, straight road leading from California into Nevada.  Honestly, I was a bit scared so I tried to focus on the lovely scenery.   (Back at home I wrote on my white board, “Remember Kit, if you aren’t a little scared you aren’t getting anywhere.”)

About an hour into the drive, I saw a sign, “Accident Ahead” and thought, wow, it must be some accident for someone to put up that sign.  Then, in about half a mile I came to a complete stop.  There was a line of cars ahead of me and, as we sat there, the line grew longer and longer behind me. 

I ventured out of the car and the motorcyclist in front of me struck up a conversation.  I immediately thought of Neil Peart—here was the Ghost Rider right in front of me.  We sat for over an hour before the cars began to come toward us in the other lane.  We would move about a quarter mile up and then have to stop again; clearly they were alternating the east and west bound traffic through one lane.  Our final stop was just as Mr. Motorcycle reached the accident.

It was a horrendous site; a semi and a motorcycle.  The semi’s front fender was bent under, the truck on its side, the motorcycle in a million pieces, the body of which had clearly lit on fire.  There were no survivors present, the cyclist’s helmet sat, oddly shining and seemingly unscathed, amongst the rubble.

I briefly closed my eyes and wished his soul a quick departure for places unknown and sent a wave of compassion toward the people who loved him but must remain.

Then I wished Mr. Motorcyclist a safe journey.

-K

The Road Less Linear

 

    

My more astute readers will recognize the fact that I missed the biggest expectation of them all:  That I would wake up in the morning.  But wake up I did, to a gorgeous day in Morro Bay, the kind for which I have been waiting all summer.   A perfect day to drive away; I had spent two days preparing for departure and happily set off knowing I had put myself in the best possible place for success:  All Beagle’s and Wurzig’s systems were working, I had an order of Luciano’s Duck a L’Orange in the fridge and, because I knew my first stop would include an electrical hook up enabling me to use my toaster, two Pop-Tarts (among other necessary food items like Cheese-Itz and gin.)  We were on the road by 7:30.

Holy shit! Well, this will teach me for not starting a post by setting the scene:  I had just finished that paragraph when River began barking, I looked up to see a Coyote staring us down from a mere twenty yards away.  Opus immediately launched into Killer mode and the two of them tried their best to break their tethers.   It was the biggest coyote I have ever seen.  And not mangy, he was beautiful with a shiny full coat and well-developed body; and he clearly was not afraid of the dogs.  So I jumped up, grabbed my large canteen (the only heavy thing I had near me other than my laptop) and quickly took a few menacing steps toward him (stop laughing), telling him to get away.  He gazed at me rather sardonically before turning and slowly walking back into the brush.

So where is all this taking place?  I am sitting in dappled sunshine, it is about 75 degrees, not a cloud in the sky, an occasional soft breeze, and the Noses are laying in the grass (albeit facing the way the coyote departed) at the Mono Vista RV Park, a place I have raved about before so will not do so again other than to say, I was planning on only one night (intending to get the heck out of California ASAP) but I can’t help it, I am staying for two; this stop is one of my happy places.  My pitch is at the end of a row, Beagle’s door opens to the mountains (and wildlife lol) and my neighbor is a 16’ Airstream Sport.  Just prior to sitting down under the leafy trees to write, I was washing my dishes, looking out Beagle’s wonderful front windows and marveling, “This is my life!  I can do this as long as I want.”  A perfect moment in time.

To top it off, getting here was one of the most splendid drives I have ever done, certainly since owning Beagle.  Nearly 400 miles and nine hours on the road garnering exceptional external beauty and a deepening internal peace. 

To avoid Yosemite (you currently have to reserve a spot to just drive through due to the fires) I took the Road Less Linear:   Highway 1 to 46, my local stunning drive, then over 41 to Fresno (smoke from the fires burning my eyes and stinging my throat), up the 99 (a break from the beauty just to give my senses time to adjust because beauty, like happiness, only exists if the opposite is sometimes recognized), then 59 opened up to rolling hills dotted with oak trees, hardly a soul on the road, to 108 through Sonora Pass and down to 395.  Although I enjoyed all of it, it was during my time on 108 that I felt completely at peace.  It starts with tall trees and climbs to the typical high-Sierra landscape of light-colored boulders, wide open spaces and grand vistas highlighted by the occasional gathering of trees.  No one in front of me and no one behind me, we meandered, it was heaven.

***

Most of us learned in high school that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.  Being an efficiency expert, this knowledge served me well in business:  I could look at a process and eventually find the most efficient way of getting the result.  (Thankfully I sold the highly configurable SAP software suite which could support my creative solutions.)  But what worked great in business doesn’t work well in life.  Because, in life, if you are at Point A and focusing on getting to Point B, you have two major issues:  (1) You are creating expectations about Point B (the most basic being the assumption that you really want to be there)  and (2), you are likely to overlook all the wonderful pixels of light just to the right or left of the most efficient route.

This is not to argue against having goals.  I think goals are very important.  The difference to me is that I think goals are generalized, for example, I want to be open to feeling like I deserve Joy again in my life but the shape in which that Joy might appear is comprised of almost limitless pixels.  Only in appreciating the moment do I realize that those pixels are all inside of me and it is up to my very human senses to bring them to light.

Here’s to the Road Less Linear.

-K

The No Expectations Tour

 

 

OK, I am breaking a rule; I am posting on the Beagle blog but not actually traveling in the Beagle.  Yet.  She is parked out front, I can see her through my den window, all hitched up and ready to go first thing in the morning.

Almost two years ago I set off in Beagle to discover my new life, study the difference between free will and fate, and other lofty goals.   But after three tiring months on the road, the 2018 Tour quickly turned into a hunt for a winter home.  I knew I had found it the moment I drove into Morro Bay.  That remains true to this day; even more so as I have discovered friends and talents I never knew I possessed.  All of which I will dearly miss on this trip.

But I have a simpler goal this time:  To go wherever I want for whatever reason and to travel and arrive with no expectations.  “Without expectations, everyone is perfect.”  Sorry, cannot remember the author of that quote, but I am going to expand it to, “Without expectations everything is perfect.”

Before I start out, I want to record this feeling of joy in the unknown.  I love this moment in life when you know something is about to happen (truly know it, not just feel it, I know I will drive away tomorrow) and you have no idea what is going to happen; it is one of the greatest feelings on earth, at least to me.

And I truly have no expectations.

Somebody check the time.

-K

PS:  I was thinking today while packing up that I will make an effort to have fresh flowers in Beagle.  After dining at my dear friend’s restaurant, he gave me a rose as a parting gift.  Life always has my back.

The Yellow Splash of Caution

Well clearly I made it out; I am sitting back home now all clean and shiny and doing my best to relate this as honestly as possible.

Back to that last day in camp:  If you recall, I had parked Beagle in my reserved spot (a double spot) but the prior occupants had not left—they were out for the day; clearly intending on returning to their tent and belongings.  Which they did at 6:30PM.  By then the campground was packed; people were everywhere, doubling up in single sites, just trying to make do—no one was going to head back down that road at that hour.  And the camp host was nowhere to be found.  Totally MIA.  But the great thing about campers is that we are all usually pretty laid-back people.

And so when the occupants arrived and gave Beagle a long look, I walked over and introduced myself.  I had seen them the night before when I was scoping out my next spot and they looked like a nice couple, young, with a boy of about seven.  I mentioned that I made a reservation for the spot online and he claimed he did too (not to be suspicious, but the reserved marker indicated that they only had reserved it for two nights, not three.)  In any event, it was getting late and we acknowledged that we were both quiet and thought the arrangement was just fine.  And it was.

Sitting in Beagle after dark I was in a near panic about leaving in the morning.  I seriously thought about walking over to site #16 and asking my welcoming neighbor if I could follow him out in the morning but I knew that would likely lead him somewhere I had no intention of going.  Then I got mad at myself.  Really angry.  I mentally yelled at myself, “Kit, stop playing the victim here!  If you don’t like how you are feeling then figure out what decisions you made to get yourself here and make different ones in the future.  And for now, shut the fuck up and figure out the best plan to get out.”  

That’s like self-love, right?

And this is where I realized one of the best things Alan and I did for each other; we made each other better.  We were far from identical.  Far.  He taught me logic and I taught him emotion and in a million other ways our differences made us an excellent team.  One thing he had that I never learned was Caution.  I would say, “Oh!  That looks like fun, let’s do that!” or, “Let’s go there!” and he would answer, “OK, let’s see how we can do that or go there without either one of us dying or going broke.”  I was our inspiration and he was our caution; the combination brought about incredible journeys. 

Caution is what I lacked on this trip.  So after my talking to, I noted that next time I will be more cautious, I will Google Earth the roads before committing my precious Beagle.  But for that night, the only thing I could come up with to ease my anxiety was leaving as early as possible in the morning in hopes of not meeting anyone else on the road.

And so we left, 7:15.  About five miles into the drive, just before it became super scary, I came upon a logging truck coming up the mountain, empty this time.  Thankfully, it was on a straight portion of the road and he had lots of room to pull over which he quickly did, giving me a little honk-honk as I slipped by.  I hoped that he would radio his fellow workers that I was coming down the mountain.

I was a nervous wreck.  Sometimes things aren’t as bad as you remember, but these roads actually were worse.  There was one spot where a boulder was on my right and the drop to the valley on the left and only enough room for one vehicle to inch through, on a blind curve—I hadn’t even remembered that one.  I really wanted to take a picture but dared not stop.

When I finally (finally!!) reached the end of Hogback Road and saw Highway 245, the first thing I noticed was the bright yellow strip down the middle.  Lines!  A road with lines!  Highway 245 now looked like the Orange County Toll Road, wide and welcoming.  I was so happy!  It still wound around a lot but you could see ahead if someone was coming.  At one point I could see no one coming for awhile so I didn’t bother staying in my lane at all, I joyfully swerved along, crossing back and forth over that wonderful yellow line.  It was so pretty, it seemed to shimmer in the morning light.

Then I heard, swish, swish, swish, swish and thought, “Hmmm, that’s odd, it sounds like I am going through puddles but there is not a cloud in the sky.”  I glanced in my rear-view mirror and saw all that shimmering bright yellow paint splashing up the side of Beagle.

Yep.

Really, it was too much.  I had to laugh.  What happened to Caution?  To top it off, the swerving across the line was something I always did while towing (when appropriate) and Alan never did—he preferred to always be in his lane.

But I will never forget that joyful feeling; I am tempted to leave the paint on Beagle.

 

-K

Two Out of Three

“Might…maybe…if you are lucky”, was where I promised this post would start.  If you missed the last episode, these are some of the words the manager of a campground used when I asked his opinion of getting Beagle up to Eshom Campground. 

We can dismiss the “maybe” as I am sitting here now, in Site 22, a double site nestled alongside the creek, a site in which last night’s occupants have failed to leave, choosing to spend the day somewhere else while their tent and belongings remain behind (perhaps this issue will rectify itself before I am done writing, let’s just see.)  It being a double site, there was plenty of room for me to park Beagle without so much as casting dust onto their stuff, so here I sit.  Writing and waiting.

Ever since my arrival yesterday, I have been looking forward to today as a day of 50% recovery from the drive in and 50% building up the courage to leave tomorrow. Site #22 is worth the wait; I only hope last night’s occupants lean toward apologetic and not angry.  If they ever return.

Anyway, this morning, with Mr. Campground’s three words ringing in my head, I drove down Highway 180 to Highway 245, you remember, as Google attempted to direct me on Monday.  Immediately my heart began pounding; Highway 245 is nothing more than a narrow, barely two-lane road winding down, through and around the surrounding mountains.  But it is not like I could turn around—there weren’t even any pull outs available.  Ack, it is making me nervous just writing about it.

Assuming I would lose cell connection, I had written out the directions but thankfully Verizon carried through with only a few drops—very few of my road names matched the tragically few number of road signs.  A left onto Hogback Road put me on an even more narrow and more harrowing drive as it climbed up the mountain, providing lovely, heart-stopping views from the right side of the vehicle straight down into the valley below.  No guard rails, no shoulder most of the time, no turn around areas, no lines, no way am I coming here again.

I drove extremely slowly, one eye on the next blind curve, one eye on my cell connection—I wanted to know how far back I would have to walk if I lost service and needed to get help.  I knew that if I came across someone who was also towing, one of us would have to back up.  I imagined the other driver would be a man.  I seriously thought about crying.

And here is where Luck comes in:  Just as I was taking a sharp right, a semi-truck (Semi-Truck!) full of trees (giant, dead Sequoia trees) came cruising around the blind curve ahead.  We had about two seconds to decide how to play this.  Being two expert drivers, we immediately determined that it is best if neither of us stopped moving; he shimmied his rig alongside the mountain, crushing some bushes, while I used every inch of the two feet between the pavement and the drop to the right as we maneuvered around each other like two unwilling boxers.  I couldn’t even look in my rear-view mirror—what did it matter anyway?  We were either going to scrape each other or not; my only wish was that he didn’t hit me forcibly enough to knock me over the edge.

I’d like to say it got easier but it didn’t.  I did not happen across any more logging trucks but now I was completely paranoid, my jaw clenched tight, a death-grip on the steering wheel.  When I realized both of these things I took some deep breaths (still no where to turn around for miles) and just tried to concentrate on getting around the next curve.  At one point, I kid you not, the road was only as wide as Wurzig with a boulder on the left and the drop off on the right as I headed into a blind curve.  I was barely breathing.

With about ten miles to go I was given an opportunity to turn around.  A left onto Whitaker provided enough space in the road to allow a three-point turn should I so desire.  I stopped.  I considered it.  I used all my Might to continue forward.  In for a penny in for a pound.  By now I wanted to see if this was worth all the trouble.

Can’t say that it is.  Although maybe just for the relief you feel when you finally see the Eshom Campground sign; it flooded me from head to toe.  I had booked online taking the only site available for Tuesday night, #16, so had no idea what to expect.  Thankfully, it was at the end of a loop and on the outside.  A few minutes after I backed Beagle in, my neighbor came over to introduce himself.  Can I just say, I was not in the mood.  All I wanted was to get the hot Noses out of the hot car and pour some warm scotch over ice.  He, of course, wanted to talk about Beagle, then River, then Opus before finally allowing that maybe I wanted some quiet time to just get set up. He did mention that I was in the best site in the park and that if I needed anything “other than ice” to just let him know.

But he was wrong about #16 being the best site.  Site #22 is the best site, albeit you have to fork over the money for a double site.  It is well worth it.  #16 was ok; Beagle’s door opened into a private forest of trees heading up the mountain and had plenty of shade for the Noses, but I am happier over here. 

Tomorrow I pack up and head back down those roads.  For now I need to stop thinking about it, enjoy the sound of the creek outside Beagle’s door and another hike with Opus.

-K

Dreamy Anticipation

Have I written about this before?  My love of anticipation?  How I think it is the most under-rated emotion?  Joy, like Hate are spontaneous emotions.  Anticipation, like Compassion, only gets better with time.

So it was with great anticipation that I packed up Beagle; I “knew” my campground was on Hume Lake; I was day-dreaming like crazy about how I would swim in the lake every day after walking the Noses around the three mile lakeside trail (planning to do it twice with Opus.)  I packed two bathing suits, my serious, let’s get some exercise one-piece suit and my serious, let’s get some sun, bikini.  Walking, swimming, reading (there is no cell service at the lake), writing.  Three nights, maybe four, of discovering what my mind will do when left completely to its own devices.  

And then it was with great consternation that, when Google said, “Take the next right onto Highway 245”, leading me away from Hume Lake, that I replied, “I certainly will not.”  I figured Google had it wrong, you know, because that happens every day.

Eventually I pulled over and realized my mistake; while making the reservation for Hume Lake, Eshom Campground popped up as having availability for my dates.  I just assumed that Eshom was the name of the campground at the lake.  Such a rookie mistake, I can hardly believe it.

Not wanting to give up on my lovely daydreams, I still drove to Hume Lake.  It was packed.  I mean packed!  Kids everywhere, multiple tents in a single campsite; all the reasons I do not usually camp this time of year.  I drove through and pulled off Hume Lake Road to study some maps—having arrived at the aforementioned cellular dead zone.  By now it was getting close to three.  I could see from the map that getting back to Eshom would take some time and also realized that it would involve a twisting, narrow, perhaps not even paved road—too much to take on right then.  I needed a Plan B for the night.

I drove up Highway 180 to a private campground and the manager showed me the sites available.  It was basically a field off of the highway although (and I give him great credit for this) he was serving ice cream.  I told him my tale and asked about the roads to Eshom.  “Your rig might make it…maybe…going the back way.  You will have better luck going back down to Highway 245.”   Three words you never want to hear when someone is telling you how to get to a campground:  Might, Maybe and Luck.  Turns out I needed two out of three but that is tomorrow’s story.

It was too hot and dry to stay in his sunny meadow so I hopped in the car and turned back toward Hume Lake.  I had seen a couple of pull off areas in which I could stash myself for the night but as luck would have it, just off of Highway 180 I saw a beautiful boondocking spot nestled among the giant trees.  I pulled over, walked back to the site, saw how I could get Beagle down and, more importantly, back up, returned to Beagle and backed her in. 

It was a great site:  Quiet, with only the occasional car passing by on the highway and after dark I counted only two until I drifted off to sleep.  Across the street was a Forest Service road which the Noses and I enjoyed for an evening walk.  We repeated it the following morning during which we paused to wonder at a giant bear print.  Wonder, not like, “wow, nature” but more like “hmmm, why are we out here without our pepper spray?”

Opus and I felt like we were just getting started after returning River to Beagle so we left her in the cool, shadowed car and set off down the still deserted highway.  After half a mile or so I noticed a creek running alongside the road, about thirty yards below.  And then the Deal Maker, a large, flat, sun-filled rock just at its edge.  We headed down through the rocks and brush.

Once at the rock, a small pool revealed itself; the creek gurgling over the rocks and fallen trees, splashing into a clear, shallow pool.  It was a mini oasis completely hidden from the road.  Time for a mini swim. 

Have you noticed that sometimes you are fortunate enough to have people in your life that enhance it whether you are with them or not?  I am fortunate right now to have three such people:  Whether together or not, one keeps me sane by reminding me to laugh at myself and life’s foibles; one keeps me exploring new sides of myself; and one constantly reminds me of what I truly want in life.  So it was with a nod to TWGPT that I stripped down to the suit you are never without, waded into the pool and dunked myself under; he had just done so on the other side of the Sierra’s.

It was cold, I could only dunk under twice before making my way back out to that sunny, flat rock.   As the sun dried the droplets from my skin, I gazed down the valley, grateful to have spent so much time day-dreaming about Hume Lake and savoring the delicious tangibility of the here and now.

-K

Content

In the midst of the social and civil unrest, and despite my complete agreement with both #BlackLivesMatter and #FreeCalifornia, I set off for a Kit Essential Mental Break; hitting the road with Beagle for four nights to the one place I always feel completely free, the mountains.

And so we returned to the Eastern Sierra’s; a rare Springtime trip as we usually visit in the Fall.  This time it is Opus and I alone, River having grown too old to hike or handle weather over 75 degrees--both of which we had in spades.  But first we had to get here.

No easy task in the courage department as many campgrounds are still closed (as of this writing—many are due to open next week); I figured at the worst I could camp on BLM land and knew this area has plenty of it.   However, lack of a campground is really my second fear, the first, and I am sure many of my readers who tow trailers will agree, is backing up.  Combining the fear of finding a locked gate after pulling down an unknown road with having to back up that unknown road, it is a wonder I managed to leave Morro Bay at all.

On the drive up I needed a lunch break and was cruising up the beautiful Highway 178, glancing over at Kern River, trying to find a parking lot that I could circle through.  I believed I spotted one about halfway, I slowed down until I could determine that there was a way to pull through the parking lot via a narrow circle, and so turned into the lot.  What I failed to notice were the trees hanging down over one side of the narrow turnaround; there was no way Beagle would fit under those branches.  (Like a lot of our county, city, state, and national parks, this area was long overdue for some TLC—something likely to only get worse the longer we stay shut down—you think we had budget problems before.  Whoops, drifted back into #FreeCalifornia.) 

So there I was, nose first into a single lane of parked cars with no way to pull through and around.  Jumped right to Fear #1, although worse, as I contemplated having to back out of the parking lot and onto Highway 178.

But then, glory be, two cars pulled out allowing me enough space to attempt a 5,000 point turnaround.  I couldn’t get it to happen, was practically jack-knifed while impatient cars were piling up behind me (it was slightly over 100 degrees outside; everyone wanted a piece of that river.)  Eventually I had to face the fact that, if I was to ever leave this parking lot, I would have to drive Wurzig over a curb.

Ahh, memories of Bass Lake returned, backing up, hitting a rock, flat tire.  But having no choice, I slowly pushed Wurzig up and over the curb, Beagle following closely behind.  We made it out.  Eventually I did manage to park near the river, get out and enjoy Luciano’s Duck a l’Orange at the water’s edge.

You may be able to imagine my trepidation as, hours later, I turned down unknown road after unknown road to find Tuttle Creek Campground.  I didn’t know for sure it was open; would the gate be locked?  Would I be forced to back up?

Delightfully, the gate was unlocked and the campground mostly empty; I reviewed it on Campendium if you want more information.  I liked my pitch so much I immediately decided to stay all four nights and settled in knowing I didn’t have to worry about where I was camping for the rest of this trip.

It had been a long, hot day and it was still over ninety degrees at the campground, Opus and I were wilting.  So after a short walk, a short shower and cold dinners, we settled under the shade of our tree (rare in the campground), me with my Pelegrino and camp chair, Opus with his dreams and the dirt.

And we were content. 

But you know me well enough by now to know that I couldn’t leave it at that:  I had to think about what it took to be content; it was a feeling I had been lacking for so long it felt like a new discovery.  I Googled the definition and enjoyed musing over the philosophical/logical option: “…the sum of the attributes or notions comprised in a given conception; the substance or matter of cognition.” 

Because, you know, there is content as in, “I feel content” and then there is content as in, “This blog is full of circumspect content.”

After playing with this notion for a few long hikes, I decided that, for me, being content means that all my senses are satisfied (taste of dinner, feel of the breeze, sound of the frog, site of the mountains, touch of Opus’ nose) and my being is safe; take away the ability to feel physically safe and contentment disappears.  And now we are back to #BlackLivesMatter.  Imagine not being able to feel safe around those who are supposed to save you.

***

I haven’t spent time this far south on Highway 395 in about a decade so the opportunity to explore new trails had me up and packing early for two days.  (The third day, today, finds me weary from hiking above 10,000’ feet and wanting shelter from the fierce wind that has set it.)

Friday’s hike was intended to be to Golden Trout Lakes but, after talking it over with a fellow hiker on the way up, I veered off to the left towards Kearsarge Pass.  It was a mostly cloudy day although the scenery was still inspiring.  Most notable were the sounds on the way up:  The trail wound over hills between two valleys both of which had their own waterfall.  As you hike, you hear one waterfall behind you, then a few minutes of quiet as you round the hill before the waterfall in front of you sends over its pillow of sound.  I thought to myself, “Christo would have figured out how to make that sound visible.”  Earth will miss that man who made us see things by covering them up.

The snow began falling at 3.5 miles—never made to the pass, we were about 1.5 miles short of it.  I sheltered under a tree to see if the squall would blow through and allow us to continue, but the look Opus shot at me quelled any thought of waiting it out.  We headed down.  A little over seven miles total since, as is the case with “hiking with Kit”, there was a point at which I lost my way.  But not as badly as Saturday.

For Saturday’s hike I drove up to Bishop and headed out to Treasure Lakes in the John Muir Wilderness.  It was 80 degrees in Bishop, 45 at the trailhead and felt like 20 below at the lake.  But what a gorgeous place!  I think I wrote of Lamarck Lakes last year that it was my favorite but this set a new bar.  (It is the picture at the top of the blog.)  Unfortunately, despite the sunshine, we did not last long at the top; the wind was too biting.  Just long enough to eat while huddled in every bit of clothing I brought.  I forgot how cold it can get that far up.

It is a great hike, lots of up, obviously, but a little up and down which is nice on the legs.  During the return, I was just cruising along the trail when I came to a dead end:  I was on top of a giant mound of boulders looking down, down, down at South Lake.  Clearly no longer on the trail.  There was no way I was scampering down through the boulders with a pack and a terrier, although I felt quite sure the trail was below me.  Then it dawned on me that I could look at my Garmin (hello?).  While fishing it out, I was joined by two other hikers, equally lost.  So at least I knew it wasn’t just me.  Garmin indicated that the trail was actually above us, not below us, by about 500’.  So the three of us turned around and clambered our way back up.  Sure enough, there it was, plain as day.  We laughed and wondered just where we went wrong.

What should have been a five-mile hike turned into just over six. 

On the drive back to Lone Pine, I stopped at Copper Top BBQ, purchased a half rack of ribs, only ¾ of which made it back to Beagle.  That, my friends, is why God created rest areas.

-K