I stole the pen I write this with from the cashier at the Tuolomne Meadows store. On a second, maybe third, trip in I heard her complaining that people had walked off with all her pens. Every time she rang up an item she would say the price out loud followed by either “tax” or “grocery.” After an all day of ins and outs it began to put a pallor on her otherwise pleasing demeanor. Why don’t those things annoy the people that do them?
Our shoes were frozen solid as rocks this morning as were our socks. My socks could have handily slain any wily kangaroo in the outback. The slog through the meadows was short and pleasant. A trail, however, should never run through such a pretty meadow in a place with as much hiker traffic as Yosemite. It just collects water. Hikers vainly trying to keep their feet dry, track up multiple parallel trails. There were three or four trails about a foot apart from each other all headed the exact same direction.
We got a lot of mail from the PO. Unfortunately a very important package from Siri has not arrived yet. It is the first trouble we have had with packages. Strangely, the package that is most important to me is the one to get lost. Granted not getting food in a place like Warner Springs would have posed a serious problem. Food can be obtained though. There is just the matter of a hitchhike. The things I was expecting in the missing package are one of a kind and hold extreme symbolic importance to me, especially at this time in my life. Not getting the package was a severe disappointment and motivational setback. Perhaps I have been getting overly anxious about the whole thing. We discussed our options. I could leave a forwarding address for our next stop thus missing the opportunity to have the things on the date I had planned for them; or, we could wait and get further behind schedule. Both options were horribly depressing. We settled on at least waiting until the mail comes in tomorrow at noon. I was in a shitty mood. Dyl bought us both 32 oz. Sheaf Stouts, my first drink of the trip. I’m happy to say it cured me.
Monique, the janitor hovering around this afternoon, came by for a conversation mid beer. Somehow, she ended up giving Dyl a pageboy modster haircut with my Swiss Army scissors. I enjoyed the spectacle so much that I ended up with one too. Mine isn’t like Dyl’s though. The only way I could describe it is that it is a “hair style.” The beers were drank, we had fresh hair do’s, and the mood was lighter. We get to sample the concession stand breakfast in the a.m. to boot. Monique put everything in perspective for me, “You’re not stuck.” True, I’m about as unstuck as anyone could be.