WHAT GOES UP…
I
couldn’t have been more lathered had I just ran the mile-and-an-eighth at
Pimlico with a ninety-pound jockey on my back, as I stood there with nothing
but a small, backpacker’s towel that was only slightly larger than a Del Taco napkin,
covering what essentially needed covering.
Feeling like a penny waiting on change, I scoured the area looking for
someone, anyone, to rescue me. But I’m
ahead of myself…
Someone once said, “What goes up, must come down.” To that individual I say, “Bull butter!” Over the years I have been known to come up
with some marvelous ideas that can only be described as pure genius. A gift, one could say, so when the idea to
hike the John Muir Trail in California’s High Sierra Nevada Mountains popped
into my head some years ago, it seemed like a good idea. After all, I’ve been all over the Sierra, and
even many of the places along the JMT.
Yes, I was perched atop a mule at the time, but it wasn’t that big of a
deal.
About the time I got serious and began making plans, I blew out a knee
with a meniscus tear while hiking during deer season, and my JMT plans were put
on hold. I then spent the next 15 months
building a beer belly while dutifully going through all the pointless steps,
waste, and nonsensical hoops that insurance companies make you jump through
while trying to get the tear repaired.
After therapy (which only aggravated the tear), cortisone shots, gel
shots, a tonsillectomy, appendectomy, hysterectomy, x-rays, and MRIs, the tear
was finally repaired and plans began once again for the hike.
Somewhere early on in my planning, my niece, Nichole Higgins Susi-Blair
decided she was going to go along on this hike of a lifetime. This created a new wrinkle in my plans. While I was happy to have someone goofy
enough to go along with me, this now meant that my training regimen would have
to change from my two bottles of Sierra-Nevada Torpedo beers every afternoon
out under the oak tree in the yard, to actual hiking. I know, stupid, huh? But it was her idea.
At any rate, Pickle and I began practice hiking on the weekends, and I
even did some hikes on my own during the week.
The valley I live in is at 4000’ elevation, and we are surrounded by the
San Jacinto Mountains with peaks raging from six to ten thousand feet, so I
wasn’t terribly worried for me about the elevations we would be traveling on
the JMT, but I was concerned about Pickle since she comes from Huntington
Beach, which as the name suggests, is located at sea level. The original plan was to hike from Tuolumne
Meadow in Yosemite National Park, to Mt Whitney, a distance of about 211 miles,
but since Nichole is cursed with having to pay bills and work for a living, and
the fact we failed to draw that coveted permit, we decided upon entering just
south of the Park boundary at Rush Creek out of June Lake, and hike to the Mt.
Whitney Portal, thereby cutting the mileage to about 179 miles.
I carefully calculated that even with chronic arthritis in every joint
of my body, 3 disintegrated discs in my lower back, neuromas in both feet, and
a host of other entertaining ailments, and
even without beer, I could manage ten miles a day. Even though I slept through most of math
class during my incarceration in the public school system, with the help of my
dog, as well as mine and Cathy’s fingers and toes, I carefully calculated the
trip would take us 18 days and we’d add in one extra for a zero day to rest and
fish.
My goal was to tote a 38 pound pack.
In that pack would have to be all of my gear plus a bear canister to
contain our food. The canister is
required, and if caught without one it is about a $1500.00 fine. Hauling one around is about as enjoyable as
bucking moldy hay. Pure, plain and
simple, it’s as awkward as a twelve-year-old with new braces, and a pain in the
butt.
There was menu planning, preparing, and sending the goods off to the
various resupply points along the trail where we could replenish our food
stock. There were endless hours of
figuring out the Rubik’s Cube-like puzzle of fitting everything in our packs,
then eliminating items deemed useless, then repacking and repeating the process
over and over, trying for the proper balance.
Finally the day arrived and we headed for Lone Pine in the eastern
Sierra where we would pick up our entry permit and head up to Horseshoe Meadow
which is located at 10,000’. There we could camp and acclimate for a couple of
days before we headed north to hike.
Day One (Star log 2137): Our
entry permit was for August 1st, so on July 31st we parked the truck in Lone Pine, jumped on a shuttle bus, and headed for June
Lake where the plan was to camp one night at the trailhead, and then hit the
trail on the morning of the 1st. I should mention that while at Horseshoe
Meadow, we redid our packs one, last time, and carefully weighed them using an
old packers scale, a handy little item for getting the approximate weights of
panniers when stock packing. My pack
consistently weighed in at 50 pounds; heavier than I wanted, but manageable, I
felt because, well, I’m an idiot.
Following a bit of pavement hiking, hitch-hiking, and more hiking from
highway 395 to our jump-off point, we arrived at a little café and campground
where we discovered there was a shortcut to hop on the Rush Creek Trail, and
thereby would bypass any pesky rangers checking for permits. We had researched this trail and were warned
it was not only steep, but completely sun exposed, and best traveled early in
the morning while it was still cool.
Even though we were a day early, we redid our bags one, last time, and
at 11:30 am, we risked the wrath of a really, riled-up ranger, writing writs to rowdy rebellious hikers, a substantial
fine, twenty-years in a federal penitentiary, and started up the trail. Why, you ask?
Because I’m a rebel and that’s just the way I roll.
Nichole began skipping up the trail, whistling and singing like a Girl
Scout on a cookie drive, an annoying habit that would continue for the entire
trip. Trailing behind, I ably managed to
march about fifty yards where I commenced with the first of my thirteen-hundred
and sixty-four thousand and twelve, signature “rests”, where I would
strategically place my posterior on a rock, take the weight off of my back, and
charmingly hack up the remnants of a chest cold from the week prior. These “rests” are a trademark of mine, a
wilderness survival move I have perfected over the years, and have, in fact,
freely and unselfishly shared with others wishing to expand their skill sets in
the great outdoors. But I digress.
I should take this opportunity to point out that rumored abundance of
snow and the record runoff in the Sierras is in fact, a myth, at least on the
first nine miles of the Rush Creek Trail.
By mile 3, the remaining water in both of my Nalgene bottles was hot
enough to hard-boil eggs, and by mile 4 I had consumed it all. I’d also like to take this opportunity to
thank the Edison Company employee at Waugh Lake who tossed me two bottles of
water to keep me going until mile 9.1, where we crawled into what would be our
campsite for the first night. We had
begun the hike at 7600’, and were now at 9100’ where the trail appeared to
level off for the foreseeable fifteen feet.
I was drier than a popcorn fart, and wore out as a neck-wrung rooster.
If there is one thing that annoys me like corduroy pants on a
hemorrhoid, it is the song “Happy.” If
there is one thing that I detest even more than the annoying song, it is being
awakened by the sound of my hiking partner whistling “Happy” while performing
yogurt poses outside of my tent at butt-thirty in the morning. I must admit, however, after I crawled out of
my tent and got a cup of coffee down, I actually felt remarkably good
considering the previous day’s near death experience.
Day Two: Our hike began much the
same as day one; up, up and away. I
would do fine on level and downhill stretches, but those stretches were fewer
than fish feathers. It was the up-hill
climbs that were kicking my fanny. My
upper legs were as wobbly as a new-born foal’s, and I couldn’t seem to recover
after stopping to rest.
Our goal this day was the Thousand Island Lakes area where we would
join up with the JMT, and I must confess that at this point I had some serious
doubts about my legs giving out as we continued to climb. We entered into a short downhill area where
we began to encounter an abundance of black flies. Pulling out the paint roller, we began
applying enough Deet repellent to keep bears away. Still, the flies were relentless as we
approached yet another uphill climb.
By now we were at 10,000’ and still climbing. My upper legs were as unsteady as well-done
spaghetti. I’ve spent most of my day
trying to avoid stepping on my tongue, but by mid-morning I was already as
ragged as a sheepherder’s socks, while little Miss Skippy Higgins up there was
flitting about the trail like a bee working a honey-suckle bush.
There is an old country song from the 70’s called, “She Got the Gold
Mine; I got the Shaft,” by Jerry Reed.
In that song there is a line where Jerry says, “Why didn’t ya just learn
how to cook?” I swear to you that for
the remainder of the trip, every time I hit an uphill stretch I could hear Jerry Reed's voice say to me, “Why didn’t ya just bring yer mule?”
From this point on, every uphill climb began with me stopping, glancing
up at Skippy’s annoyingly, smiling face looking down on me some three
switchbacks above, shaking my head and saying, “ You’ve got to be sh^##*& me?” This became the routine.
At long last we topped out at a pass, and decided to sit down and eat
some lunch. Actually, I needed the break
to start jotting down in my journal my last will and testicle, but I figured I
might just as well eat something before I expired. It was at this juncture the plot thickened,
as a couple of packers with a group of customers they were bringing out, come
riding by and asked us where we were headed.
“Thousand Island Lakes,” Pickle chirped.
“Oughtta push a little farther to Garnett Lake,” he replies. “No people there, and it’s prettier.”
Before I can ask the critical question, “How far is a little farther,”
Nichole answers,
“Sounds great; thanks for the info,” and the packers disappeared over
the pass and headed down in the direction we had just come up.
Now I should have known right then and there. I know packers, and packers are like fly
fishermen; Untrustworthy, they have the soul of a shark, the morals and
conscience of a rutting bull elk, and the credibility of CNN. As Pippy Speedstockings tossed her pack on
her shoulders and shot off down the trail like a Brussel sprout out of a
five-year-old’s mouth, I wondered what my old Drill Instructor, SSgt Bridston would have done in
this situation to help motivate me to keep hiking. I shuttered with cold chills, and my mind
turned to happier thoughts like fighting lions in the Coliseum, a colonoscopy
with a Go-Pro on the end of a plumber’s snake, or having my ear removed with a
cheese grater. Even though I was
as tired as a rented pony at kid’s birthday party, I resigned myself to my fate, and off I
went. By the time we finally reached
Thousand Island Lakes I was as pooped as the bottom of a parakeet cage.
Now, a couple of vital nuggets of knowledge you should be aware of
should you ever go on a forced march hike in the Sierras with an over-zealous,
range fed, gluten free, fitness-nut, yogurt instructor, are these: You should
know the term, “Just over this pass a little ways,” or “Just a little bit
farther,” These quaint, little phrases
actually mean you should prepare yourself for an uphill climb where there is
the real possibility of a daylight sighting of the International Space Station,
followed by an equally long drop and steep downhill hike to a beautiful
lake.
This brings up the other interesting, little tidbit you should know,
and that is the Rule of Sierra Lakes.
Lakes in the Sierra Nevada are always, (it’s a rule, you can look it up)
always positioned in the bottom of a deep canyon that is steeper than a cow’s
face, and more often than not, requires decompression equipment to
descend. And the most important thing to
know is that once one reaches the lake, on the other side of it will be a trail
leading up that if you are lucky, will have less switchbacks than a porcupine
has quills, and will be longer than a supper of boiled liver because the person
who designed it was no doubt heavily medicated.
And last, you’re ascent up this trail from hell will always begin with
the phrase, (say it with me now) “You’ve got to be sh^##*% me!”
By the time we arrived at Garnett Lake, (that lake the packer said no
one was at) it was nearly dusk. One
might have guessed it was the opening day of Comic Con in Las Vegas by the
number of colorful tents that were scattered around the lake like lawn chairs
in a trailer park after a hurricane.
Physically exhausted, I had more aches and pains than a five-story
retirement home, and fortunately the
first camp area we arrived at, a group of kindly hikers offered us a couple of
spots we could pitch our tents for the night.
Pitch is exactly what I did, as my pack fell off my shoulders and hit
the ground like a fat kid on a teeter-totter.
If it hadn’t have been for the mosquitos, I wouldn’t have even pitched
my tent. I managed, however, and tired
as a woman’s watch, I crawled into my tent, and collapsed atop my sleeping bag,
dead to the world.
Up to this point on our trip, I hadn’t pee’d for two days except during
the middle of the night. I knew I had
become severely dehydrated on day one, but thought I had made up for it by
making a real effort to drink more water on the second day. I also knew this wasn’t a good sign, and
apparently I needed to drink even more water.
Day Three: Pickle and I set off
heading for the ominous trail of switchbacks we could observe on the other side
of the lake. As Nichole began trotting
up the steep switchbacks like a barn sour horse heading for home at feeding
time, I paused momentarily, looked up at the mountain, shook my head, and
grunted, (all together now) “You’ve got to be sh^##*% me!”
“Why didn’t ya just bring yer mule,” whispered the now familiar voice.
“Shut up, Jerry,” I grumbled, as I dug in and began the laborious trek
up the mountain. What began as a
fifty-pound backpack now felt heavier than a milk can full of horseshoes, and I
swear I’ve bucked hay bales that were lighter.
Eventually, and after a great deal of language that in my youth would
have been followed up with a bar of soap, I managed to crest the pass at the
top of the switchbacks. My upper legs
were as weak as watered down whiskey, and a rest and a snack was in order. I don’t know what the name of the pass was
that we were atop. Probably something
with the name Satin in it would be a safe guess, but the views were indeed
incredible, and more importantly, heart soothing. Comforting because the direction we were
traveling would now be downhill for as far as I could see.
Our goal this day was to hike to a small body of water with the quaint
sounding name, Rosalie Lake. Although it
was still about nine miles away, at least it was downhill, and I could do down. Following a brief rest and a snack, I backed
up to the rock my pack was perched atop, slipped into the shoulder straps, and
just before we started down the switchbacks we met a smiling Frenchman who
happened along.
Nichole introduced herself and he then extended his hand and said, “And
you muss be de great-grandfartheir, eh?”
Before I could correct him, he then went on to explain how he had left
Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite just the morning before; that’s nearly forty
miles! This is exactly why the French
are nuttier than squirrel turds, and just can’t be trusted.
The Frenchman zipped off down the trail ahead of us and disappeared on
the switchbacks below where he quickly became a tiny speck. As we neared the bottom of the switchbacks I
began hearing an odd sound coming from behind me. The sound kept getting closer and closer,
louder and louder. Never one to pass up
a good sitting spot, I pulled off the tail at the bottom, and rested my pack
and my fanny on a conveniently placed sittin’ rock.
Just then, making more noise than a cat in a fan blade, appeared a
troop of seven or eight teenage girls marching around the last switchback. The lead hiker had some sort of speaker box
hanging off of her pack that was blaring what I suppose was music, but sounded
more like a polar bear passing salmon.
They were followed by a couple of skinny boys who looked like they
couldn’t ride a fence rail in a stiff breeze, let alone carry a heavy pack, but
carry them they did. Trailing behind the
troop was an older male, wearing ear plugs and a thousand-yard stare; and I
thought I had it bad?
Soon we were making good time. I
was actually feeling somewhat human once again, and our hike was now downhill,
for the most part. According to my
navigator, we were on schedule to arrive at Rosalie Lake in plenty of time for
me to actually get a line in the water.
I was beginning to regret toting along the three-pounds of fly rod,
reel, etc. that I’d been too exhausted to rig up each day. It looked now like I’d be able to cast a line
at some of these high country trout I’d been seeing at every lake we would
pass.
Our downhill abruptly ended and leveled out at a pretty, little lake I
can’t recall the name of. I can’t recall
the name because it was here we encountered a chubby, little fellow, who by all
outward appearances had the hiking range of a Daisy air rifle and was as organized
as the five-dollar bin at Wal Mart. By all outward appearances he should be sitting behind a desk somewhere in Des Moines, selling life insurance, instead of hiking at 10,000 feet in the Sierra. One of those annoying, cheerful types, his
backpack was loose at the hip buckle, and wobbled down around his lower fanny
like a Hoola-Hoop, while the pack itself hung off his shoulders sort of
kattywompus, like John Wayne’s canteen belt did in the movie, Sands of Iwo
Jima. His name was Carl.
Carl had hiked from a little lake whose distance away from where we
stood, (I would later learn) was something just shy of that of the Chisolm
Trail. He then told us that our
destination was, “Just over that pass,” as he pointed straight up at the mountain
to our immediate right. He then casually mentioned
that we were, “Going to earn it,” as we were about to encounter approximately
fifty switchbacks on our climb to the pass.
To say my heart dropped faster than Bill Clinton’s pants in a trailer
park would be an understatement.
“Make it a game,” he said in parting.
“Count the switchbacks as you climb.”
Great, I thought, as we resumed walking. Count the switchbacks? Now I’d have to take
my shoes and socks off.
As I rounded the first switchback, Nichole was already two turns above
me.
“Oh, these aren’t bad,” she chirped.
Another of her pithy expressions I had come to trust about as much as a
Chinese condom.
As the arduous climb continued, like a bad song you can’t get out of
your head, I found myself counting switchbacks while searching for the next
available sitting rock, stump, or downed treefall. My legs were already weak as reeds, and
somewhere around switchback twenty, I’d lost count, as my attention had focused
on the dwindling supply of water remaining in my two Nalgene bottles. Not even half way up the trail, I was down to
one bottle of water, and could have honestly drank it in two gulps. Since day one, when I shorted myself on water
and became as dehydrated as a tug of jerky, I hadn’t really recovered. Instead of getting stronger, my legs were
becoming more and more wobbly, and it had become a situation above critical.
By now my rests were becoming more frequent. I found myself stopping more than a big rig
on the 405 freeway during rush hour.
Continuing with all the enthusiasm of a tree sloth in the number four
gate at the Kentucky Derby, I was down
to sipping my water instead of drinking it; I had half-a-bottle remaining, and
I was becoming concerned that my pre-trip joking about another life flight might
actually be in my near future. I even
began sizing up the area for possible landing sites for a helicopter; there
were none. I was limp as a cut string,
and the situation had now become as serious as engine failure on a 747.
I was now, by conservative estimates, on switchback
six-hundred-thirty-seven when I heard a faint voice from above me cry out, “I’m
at the top; you’re almost here!” Words
that were about as comforting as a dentist consulting a training manual; I’d
heard these words before. Still, I
shuffled on. By the time I reached the
pass you could have put a fork in me, I was done.
“The lake is right down there,” said Pickle.
“Good,” I mumbled. “I can roll that far.”
The sun had already slipped behind the surrounding peaks as I hobbled
into Rosalie Lake; I folded like an origami swan. Weaker than pond ice, I was so tired I
couldn’t have whipped shit off a shirt tail, and I was as dehydrated as a
salamander in Death Valley. Having
consumed all of my water, I couldn’t even muster the energy to swat at the
hordes of mosquitos that had come out to greet us.
I began to cuss the three pounds of fly rod, reel, and flies I had
brought along, as I sat in camp watching the trout rise on the idyllic, little
lake. While we were making our ten miles
a day, it was taking us the entire day to do so, and I was confused as to what
was wrong with me. My slow pace was
leaving us no time whatsoever to relax and do anything else. We were barely having enough time to set up
camp. Before I retired to my tent to
collapse, we had a long talk. Pickle
convinced me that after tomorrow, the trip only got steeper, and our packs
would be heavier due to the fact we’d be carrying more food, and it would be
longer intervals between resupplies. While I hate to quit anything. I
especially hate to explain to my goofy friends, family, and especially my wife
why I wasn’t smart enough to quit something when I had the chance to do so. That evening I relinquished myself to common
sense, and we made the decision to end our trip at Red’s Meadow the next
day. But first, we had to get there.
We had one last uphill to tackle, as we filled our water containers and
bid Rosalie Lake ado. We left the lake
and again started up, and once again, I shook my head, and grumbled, “You’ve
got to be sh^##*% me!”
While this climb was nothing compared to the switchbacks of death I
nearly died on the day before, my upper legs were still weaker than O.J.’s
alibi, and I struggled with this uphill as well, but at least I took comfort in
knowing it would be my last of the trip, and the remainder of our thirteen-mile
day would be downhill.
Day Four: The day’s hike into Red’s Meadow took longer than the last day of
school. Every time I looked at my GPS,
what seemed like great distance gains were actually measured in half-miles, or
less. Still, I could see light at the
end of the tunnel, and following our daily, afternoon rain and hail storm, the
gonad shrinking, river crossing, and the encounter with a gender confused,
trail runner, we dragged into Red’s Meadow more dead than alive. Well, me anyway; Skippy, up there, was
happier than a naked body-builder directing traffic, and after four days and
forty-plus miles of hiking, still had more energy than a Queensland in a cow
pen.
From the inspirational, rotund, little lady battling cancer and coming
off chemo to hike with her daughter, to my face plant in the Carl’s Jr parking
lot while wearing my pack that very nearly ended it all, it was a memorable
trip, but at the risk of this little tale turning into a novel, I should
probably wrap it up.
Oh yeah, I nearly forgot…
To get from where we were camped at Red’s Meadow there is a trail that
leads from the campground over to the resort.
This trail is designed much like a horseshoe. By that, I mean it has a long uphill to its
crest, then a long downhill regardless of which way you are going. The evening we arrived at the campground we
were desperate to eat a real supper over at the resort. As we left the campground we started on the
resort trail. Say it with me, “You’ve
got to be sh^##*% me!”
Once we arrived at the café, we had what was arguably the best
hamburger and chocolate malt ever inhaled.
During supper, Nichole casually mentioned how after we hiked back to the
campground she was going to get a change of clothes, come back, and get some
tokens for the shower, and get cleaned up.
Keep in mind that at this point in time I was keenly aware that I was unnervingly fragrant and no doubt smelled worse than a packing plant before
the pure food law, but there was no way in hell I was going to hike that damn
trail three more times tonight. I would
hike it once, and that would be to my sleeping bag. Besides, I was too tired to smell myself
anyway.
The following morning, Nichole had given me five tokens and explained
the shower took all five to start it; you then got a five-minute shower. If you wanted to shower longer, you could add more
tokens which equated to one token per minute.
I felt five minutes was plenty of time to shower, and I headed off up
the trail. I mumbled the obligatory,
“You’ve got to be sh^##*% me!” as I looked back and motioned to Pickle that I’d
meet her over at the café, and we’d have breakfast.
Since it was very early, I was the first customer, and also because
this wasn’t my first rodeo, and not wanting to waste precious shower time, I
got all nakeded up, laid my clothes out, and put my wash cloth, soap, and
shampoo in the stall. I deposited my
tokens, the water shot out, and as expected, the water was colder than a bucket
of free beer. With my hand at the
showerhead, I waited for it to warm.
Glacial melts have occurred in less time than it took for the water
coming out of the showerhead to turn hot.
Running out of precious time, at the lukewarm stage, I said, “Heck with
it,” and jumped in. I lathered up, and
began scrubbing faster than a Jackrabbit on date night. I then rinsed off, and if one scouring is
good, two is better, and quickly lathered up again. Just as I was about to stick my head under
the showerhead to rinse, the water shut off quicker than you can inhale a gnat.
“You’ve got to be sh^##*% me!”
Now feeling dumber than lug nuts on a birthday cake, I remembered I had
brought along my wallet, so I stepped out of the shower, rifled a five-dollar
bill from my billfold, and started for the door. Thankfully, it was at this point I stepped
back into the dressing room, grabbed my backpacker’s towel, and put it around
me. While it almost made the trip around
my waist, the towel at least covered the important equipment in front, and I
calculated I had a perfectly good cedar wall outside I could position myself
against to keep from mooning any chance passersby.
I was pretty certain that Nichole would no doubt be waiting outside at
one of the picnic tables for me to emerge so we could then go to breakfast.
Feeling dumber than a hunnert’ chickens, and the polestar of human
stupidity, I opened the door to the shower room, stepped out onto the deck, and
surveyed the area; no Nichole. In fact,
there was only one person outside. I looked at the gentleman, who fortunately was facing in my
direction. He was seated at the end of a
picnic table out in front of the café.
Not wishing to draw attention to myself by hollering, I raised the five
dollar bill and waved it.
“Excuse me,” I said sheepishly, “Any chance…”
At which point he immediately lifted both legs, spun his butt on the
seat, and faced away from me, choosing now to stare at a tree as if he’d never
seen me.
“You’ve got to be sh^##*% me!,” I mumbled, standing out on the deck about
as subtle as a clown’s nose.
I looked over through the café window, but no one was inside yet. I then looked over to the trail, and no
Nichole there, either. In fact, there
wasn’t a soul around except Mister Friendly over at the picnic table. So there I stood, I couldn’t have be more
lathered if I’d just ran the mile-and-an-eighth at Pimlico with a ninety-pound
jockey on my back, as I stood there on the deck with nothing but a small
backpacker’s towel only slightly larger than Del Taco napkin, covering what
essentially needed covering. Feeling
like a penny waiting on change, I scoured the area looking for someone, anyone,
to rescue me, and waited.
After several minutes, an older gentleman wearing a boonie hat came out
from around the corner of the store that is situated not quite between the
shower building where I stood, and the café.
He was walking toward me.
“Thank you, God,” I said under my breath, as I waved my five dollar
bill, explained my situation, and asked if he’d be kind enough to get me some shower tokens from the store?
“Yeah, lemme check my laundry first,” he said?
Now, of course, it’s at this point that cars begin pulling up and
parking. People are now milling about
either going to the café, or to the store, and I’m still standing on the deck
sheepishly grinning like a jackass eating cactus, and nodding hello to those
making eye contact. I can’t go check on
the guy in the laundromat because to do so would require either exposing
myself, or side stepping along the wall like a cat burglar, and even if I could
go next door to see what the hold-up was, what would I say? “Hello, remember me?”
It was five minutes at least, and my only salvation finally exited the
laundry room and approached. Reaching
into his pockets, he pulled out five, golden tokens.
“I just remembered I had five of these left over that I hadn’t used,”
he said, as we exchanged tokens for currency.
I thanked the guy and raced back in, deposited my tokens, and unwilling
to take a chance and wait for the hot water to show up, I jumped into the cold
shower and finished my wash.
EPILOGUE
I learned a lot on this trip, and gained a great deal of knowledge
about ways to lighten my pack, and that was the big mistake here, and
ultimately what brought this trip to an end.
My pack was simply too heavy.
After arriving home, I pulled my pack from the backseat of the truck,
and hung it on the meat scale at home.
It was just as it was when we finished the trip. I had added nothing, I had taken nothing
out. It weighed 56 pounds. Now, I had used a packer’s scale to weigh this
pack prior to setting off on the trail.
The packer’s scale said I was right at fifty pounds; a weight I knew was
too heavy, but felt I could manage. The
56 pounds it weighed on the meat scale at home was without the food I had
packed in and eaten throughout the trip.
My food weight prior to stuffing it into my bear canister was twelve
pounds. That means I began the trip with
a 68 pound pack. I told you one can
never trust a packer.
I’ve already determined to fix what needs fixing, and pick up next year
where I left off, or possibly complete the trail going northbound.
At any rate, I suppose it’s true that the Lord looks out for drunks and
fools.
So, that’s my story, and it’s gotta be true because, well, it’s on the
innernets.
Happy Trails!
