Double O Kennedy

June 12-13

Kennedy Meadows, and in particular the General Store during hiking season, is a social biotope all its own. There is a spacious wooden deck, a harried snack bar, a giant hiker box consisting of a slouching table of unlabeled, half-filled ziploc bags. There are locals praising Trump in loud voices over their pancake breakfasts, trolling for liberals. There are dirt-bikers stopping for a bit of gas or beer. And then there are the hikers.
Hundreds of us, all over the place. Hikers who have been there for days, hikers who just stop in for a candy bar before launching themselves into the High Sierra. Lots of self-important hikers declaring that they had figured out how to beat the system and life-hack their way through the snow. Many packs of young men laughing too loud and looking a bit concerned, using each others' company to gloss over the fact that they did not know how to use any of the ice gear they had strapped to their pack.
It's a hiker scene, as Chancey would say. And I am a hiker, no doubt about it. It isn't, however, really my scene. I mean, I love drinking a can of beer in the afternoon, but I hate false bravado. And the population growth on the trail has led to social innovations that remind me of the worst facets of American high school: Jealously maintained cliques and rampant rumor-based fear mongering. Tables would eye me as i walked past, and then return to their discussion of how impossible the crevasses on such and such pass were.
But man oh man am I a curmudgeon, I thought to myself. So I finally just picked a table, sat down, and started talking to the people there. I did a puzzle, or as much of it as its remaining pieces would support. And I did find some pretty cool people. Maybe they were all really cool; maybe I just function poorly in this kind of setting. Given my disastrous social career in high school, this theory totally checks out.
As evening approached, Lily drove up. I gave her a big, beery hug, introduced her arond. Her glazed eyes confirmed for me that she was overwhelmed by the crowd, just like me. We pretty much immediately left for a nearby campground, where we cooked salmon and veggies. Zero miles, but a very good end to the day.
The next day was spent in the serious and heavily neurotic pursuit of packing my pack for the upcoming stretch. I had set my eyes on a big stretch, from Kennedy Meadows a full 178 miles to Vermillion Valley Resort. That means 12 days of food -- or after trying to fit that into my pack, I decided that 10 days would be all I would need -- as well as fishing rod, ice axe, bear can, warmer clothes. I shoved and squeezed and fretted while a very patient Lily waited. Finally, I had a backpack that was filled with everything necessary, but looked like a Jenga tower with a yard sale strapped to the outside. Probably weighed 50 pounds, made me as graceful as an ox, but it would keep me sage and fed for 10 days.
This monumental labor done, Lily and I repaired to the store, where I caight back up with Killer, Hoops, Carolyn, and Alex, the closest things I have to a social group right now. Then we headed back to camp for steak. We met an eccentric but very friendly Japanese man named Sugar, who sang us a farewell song and made us an origami crane; we gave him Budweiser and steak. "American beer very good," he exclaimed. My goodness, the Japanese are a considerate and polite nation.
I was scared of the upcoming section. What would the snow be like? Was I too old for this? Would my backpack break? But I had given myself all the advantages I knew how to: I was rested after double zero days, packed and ready. OK, Sierras. Let's go.