Late summer in the Sierra Nevada breeds afternoon thunderstorms. Each day after lunch, great, boiling thunderheads flowed over the horizon. We took refuge inside our tents and listened to cracks and roars of thunderbolts reverberating up and down the valley like jets buzzing over our heads. Lightning bolts lit up the tent fabric from outside while simultaneous peals of thunder boomed and rolled from one end of the basin to the other. When electric shocks cracked and smoked nearby, I had second thoughts about the wisdom of trading in my fibreglass tent poles for aluminum.
Doug, Tim and I were camped on a lake peninsula in Sixty Lakes Basin in the Sierra Nevada mountains west of Independence. Tim is Doug’s son and was twelve that summer. The two of them came to fish and fished every day. I threw a hook into the water on the first day of the trip; it snagged the lake bottom, then the line tangled itself around the reel and the pole and broke. This reinforced my lifelong conviction that I was not born to fish. I was better suited to sitting underneath a tree with a book.
Our friends Mike and John-boy had hiked in with us for the first week, then they had to return to work. We stayed on for a few more days.
Living without social restraints can change people’s perspectives. Two weeks in the wilderness altered our attitude toward hygiene. It seemed okay to postpone bathing. A day did come, however, when we could no longer stand ourselves or one another. It was time to test our new portable showers.
We filled black plastic bags with water and set them in the sun to warm. After lunch, I hung my bag in a tree and stripped down. When I opened the shower nozzle, it released a trickle of water that cooled quickly as it flowed down my body in the open air. I sudsed up and scrubbed as shivering skin tried to shrink away from chilly water. After rinsing, I was clean–except for mud oozing between my toes. I waddled to the lake to wash my feet. Then I lay back on a patch of grass and waved them in the air until they were dry.
Doug had packed in a bag of beans and we decided one day to boil them up and take a break from fish. We put the beans into a pot of water in the morning and let them simmer over the fire all day. There is something we were missing about the chemistry of beans. When we put them on our plates at suppertime, they were still crunchy. But we ate them and loved them.
By the time we were ready to return to civilization, Tim had toughened up. He and I took off down the trail carrying our packs with enthusiasm while Doug, walking at a more deliberate pace, fell behind. Because of that, Doug didn’t miss the turnoff to Baxter Pass. Tim and I were well on our way to Yosemite before it occurred to me that we might be on the wrong trail. We met some hikers who had a map and showed us where we needed to go.
When we returned to the trail fork, we were behind Doug trying to catch up. He thought we were ahead of him and he was trying to catch up. While we played this game of blind tag, the sun dropped behind the western peaks and darkness came on like a falling curtain.
Tim and I looked for a place to camp. We could not see the ground but we could feel our boots sinking into mud and heard squelching noises as we walked. We shuffled through the bushes, sliding our feet so that we did not trip, until we felt firmer ground. We were tired and it was dark, so we unrolled our sleeping bags in a clear space and went to bed without supper.
In the morning our water bottles were frozen. I started the gas stove and cooked breakfast while Tim whistled for his dad. Doug had camped nearby and found us in time to share a cup of coffee.
The trail down Baxter Pass was grueling–steep and rocky and endless. The pack, which had not lightened as much as I thought, banged on my shoulders and back. Rocks rolled under our feet. The strain of downhill walking put enormous pressure on our knees and thighs. It didn’t help that Tim laughed and chattered the whole time.
When we reached our car on the valley floor, I didn’t have the strength to engage the clutch pedal. Doug drove home and I slept, dreaming of hot, steamy showers.
Doug, Tim and I were camped on a lake peninsula in Sixty Lakes Basin in the Sierra Nevada mountains west of Independence. Tim is Doug’s son and was twelve that summer. The two of them came to fish and fished every day. I threw a hook into the water on the first day of the trip; it snagged the lake bottom, then the line tangled itself around the reel and the pole and broke. This reinforced my lifelong conviction that I was not born to fish. I was better suited to sitting underneath a tree with a book.
Our friends Mike and John-boy had hiked in with us for the first week, then they had to return to work. We stayed on for a few more days.
Living without social restraints can change people’s perspectives. Two weeks in the wilderness altered our attitude toward hygiene. It seemed okay to postpone bathing. A day did come, however, when we could no longer stand ourselves or one another. It was time to test our new portable showers.
We filled black plastic bags with water and set them in the sun to warm. After lunch, I hung my bag in a tree and stripped down. When I opened the shower nozzle, it released a trickle of water that cooled quickly as it flowed down my body in the open air. I sudsed up and scrubbed as shivering skin tried to shrink away from chilly water. After rinsing, I was clean–except for mud oozing between my toes. I waddled to the lake to wash my feet. Then I lay back on a patch of grass and waved them in the air until they were dry.
Doug had packed in a bag of beans and we decided one day to boil them up and take a break from fish. We put the beans into a pot of water in the morning and let them simmer over the fire all day. There is something we were missing about the chemistry of beans. When we put them on our plates at suppertime, they were still crunchy. But we ate them and loved them.
By the time we were ready to return to civilization, Tim had toughened up. He and I took off down the trail carrying our packs with enthusiasm while Doug, walking at a more deliberate pace, fell behind. Because of that, Doug didn’t miss the turnoff to Baxter Pass. Tim and I were well on our way to Yosemite before it occurred to me that we might be on the wrong trail. We met some hikers who had a map and showed us where we needed to go.
When we returned to the trail fork, we were behind Doug trying to catch up. He thought we were ahead of him and he was trying to catch up. While we played this game of blind tag, the sun dropped behind the western peaks and darkness came on like a falling curtain.
Tim and I looked for a place to camp. We could not see the ground but we could feel our boots sinking into mud and heard squelching noises as we walked. We shuffled through the bushes, sliding our feet so that we did not trip, until we felt firmer ground. We were tired and it was dark, so we unrolled our sleeping bags in a clear space and went to bed without supper.
In the morning our water bottles were frozen. I started the gas stove and cooked breakfast while Tim whistled for his dad. Doug had camped nearby and found us in time to share a cup of coffee.
The trail down Baxter Pass was grueling–steep and rocky and endless. The pack, which had not lightened as much as I thought, banged on my shoulders and back. Rocks rolled under our feet. The strain of downhill walking put enormous pressure on our knees and thighs. It didn’t help that Tim laughed and chattered the whole time.
When we reached our car on the valley floor, I didn’t have the strength to engage the clutch pedal. Doug drove home and I slept, dreaming of hot, steamy showers.
