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June 2
Our navigational mantra becomes "Trail Schmail". The more we try to stick
to our imaginings of where the trail might be under the snow, the harder the
going gets. So we give up and just go where we're going. Trail Schmail.
Going up Kearsarge Pass Pete has a conversation with a nearby coyote. They both
sound totally unworldly to me. At the top of the pass we catch a glimpse of the
now distant coyote making his way easily across a steep snowfield, following
his own tracks. We lose a water bottle, leaving us 3.
Our lives are filled with contrast. By nightfall we have hitchhiked to
Independence. We sleep in the desert outside of town.
Dylan's Tape | Pete's
Journal |
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June 3
The Restaurant Breakfast has become a celebrated event. Filled with confidence
and well-being we find a ride back to the trailhead with no effort. A wild looking
group in an old pickup offers to take us while their laundry dries. They are
travelling the country gathering herbs and spreading the Proclamation of Peace.
Our bodies seem to love the challenge of the mountains. We're soon back over
Kearsarge Pass, and by late afternoon Glen Pass. Darkness finds us at the Rae
Lakes, where there is a solitary patch of grass for us to sleep on.
Dylan's Tape | Pete's
Journal |
|
June 4
We don't see a soul all day. If there is a way to move with grace and ease over
the snow, we haven't found it. In the morning we stumble over sun cups, in the
afternoon we posthole up a slushy Pinchot Pass. My grace continues to diminish
on the way down. At one point I find myself suddenly upside-down, hanging by my
leg over a steep slide into an icy lake. I wonder, how long would I have stayed
like that if Pete wasn't there to pull me out? We sleep in earshot of the roar of
the King's River, dreading the morning ford.
Dylan's Tape | Pete's Journal |
