June 8
I woke up early, but the Angry Tent was already down. The incident remained much on my mind as I hiked that morning, trying to make my way to Golden Oaks Spring. Water sources determine your hiking schedule in the desert, and I needed to get there pretty quick --the water I'd lugged up the hillside was running low. I passed a seep that oozed muddy water across the trail, thought that was the spring and freaked out; someone using a GPS-driven hiking app came by and corrected me. I hate the idea of an app that negates the need to learn map and compass, and I really hate that unmediated wilderness experiences are now replaced with yet more staring at your damn phone. But on the other hand, I was the dumbass trying to strain mud through a bandana to stave off dehydration when there was a cold clear spring .3 miles ahead.
It was beautiful indeed, a shady glen and a trickle of water coming out a pipe set into the hillside. True, the line one had to wait in to get water was yet another reminder of the Too Many People Problem. Maybe the DMV will now remind me of a desert oasis, I thought. But my mind was mainly on other things.
Like, for instance, which of the 20 hikers here was the dude who yelled at me last night? He knew what I looked like, having seen me when he woke up that morning. I was at a disadvantage.
Not for long, however! There was a man glaring at me with poorly-disguised hate from under his sensible sunhat. OK, I said to myself, time to take care of business, wild 'n' mild style.
"Hey," I said, "do you use a Z-Packs Hexamid?"
"Yeah," he responded slowly. He knew the game was up.
"About last night," I said. "I just wanted to apologize." That's how I squash my beefs: I apologize. Way easier than arguing. And hell, it must have woken him up, which must have sucked, I cede the point.
"Oh," he said. Not what he'd expected. "Yeah, sorry if I said anything last night."
"No problem," I responded. "All good."
Which should have been the end of it, except it wasn't, because some people cannot let it be.
"The thing is," he dug in, "you shouldn't shine your light in camp when people are trying to sleep."
"Right," I replied.
"Just so you know."
"Yes," my teeth in full death-clench. Do not seek conflict, I'm telling myself, there is no benefit in it...
"Ok," he said, picking up his vaguely kung-fu staff and his restored mantle of manly pride. "Be well."
I saw him on trail on hour later when I passed him. He was deep in thought, and I did not want to startle him. He and I had had enough conflict, I thought.
"Hello," I called softly when I was ten feet away.
"GAHHHHH," he replied, shocked, lurching off the trail and brandishing his staff. Maybe he doesn't get passed much. My last (and lasting) image of him is a face contorted by fear and surprise as I excused myself and jumped by.
I felt bad. I mean, he was a dick, but neither he nor I really wished each other ill. Some people you should just avoid, I guess.
The rest of the day was passed along jeep roads that made me miss my truck, and a gradual shift in landscape toward big, majestic mountains. I saw a lot of regrettable graffiti by a hiker named Cyborg -- kick him in the shins if you see him. I could feel the Sierras coming on, and I was delighted, as I was with my progress -- another 30 on the books. Man, sometimes it feels good to be fast.
I woke up early, but the Angry Tent was already down. The incident remained much on my mind as I hiked that morning, trying to make my way to Golden Oaks Spring. Water sources determine your hiking schedule in the desert, and I needed to get there pretty quick --the water I'd lugged up the hillside was running low. I passed a seep that oozed muddy water across the trail, thought that was the spring and freaked out; someone using a GPS-driven hiking app came by and corrected me. I hate the idea of an app that negates the need to learn map and compass, and I really hate that unmediated wilderness experiences are now replaced with yet more staring at your damn phone. But on the other hand, I was the dumbass trying to strain mud through a bandana to stave off dehydration when there was a cold clear spring .3 miles ahead.
It was beautiful indeed, a shady glen and a trickle of water coming out a pipe set into the hillside. True, the line one had to wait in to get water was yet another reminder of the Too Many People Problem. Maybe the DMV will now remind me of a desert oasis, I thought. But my mind was mainly on other things.
Like, for instance, which of the 20 hikers here was the dude who yelled at me last night? He knew what I looked like, having seen me when he woke up that morning. I was at a disadvantage.
Not for long, however! There was a man glaring at me with poorly-disguised hate from under his sensible sunhat. OK, I said to myself, time to take care of business, wild 'n' mild style.
"Hey," I said, "do you use a Z-Packs Hexamid?"
"Yeah," he responded slowly. He knew the game was up.
"About last night," I said. "I just wanted to apologize." That's how I squash my beefs: I apologize. Way easier than arguing. And hell, it must have woken him up, which must have sucked, I cede the point.
"Oh," he said. Not what he'd expected. "Yeah, sorry if I said anything last night."
"No problem," I responded. "All good."
Which should have been the end of it, except it wasn't, because some people cannot let it be.
"The thing is," he dug in, "you shouldn't shine your light in camp when people are trying to sleep."
"Right," I replied.
"Just so you know."
"Yes," my teeth in full death-clench. Do not seek conflict, I'm telling myself, there is no benefit in it...
"Ok," he said, picking up his vaguely kung-fu staff and his restored mantle of manly pride. "Be well."
I saw him on trail on hour later when I passed him. He was deep in thought, and I did not want to startle him. He and I had had enough conflict, I thought.
"Hello," I called softly when I was ten feet away.
"GAHHHHH," he replied, shocked, lurching off the trail and brandishing his staff. Maybe he doesn't get passed much. My last (and lasting) image of him is a face contorted by fear and surprise as I excused myself and jumped by.
I felt bad. I mean, he was a dick, but neither he nor I really wished each other ill. Some people you should just avoid, I guess.
The rest of the day was passed along jeep roads that made me miss my truck, and a gradual shift in landscape toward big, majestic mountains. I saw a lot of regrettable graffiti by a hiker named Cyborg -- kick him in the shins if you see him. I could feel the Sierras coming on, and I was delighted, as I was with my progress -- another 30 on the books. Man, sometimes it feels good to be fast.
 |
| Hey Cyborg! YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE! |
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