Morning came, cold again. No bears in camp, even though I had cooked trout and probably left trout bones and trout stock on the ground. The Bear Menace is much exaggerated, I thought. I hiked down along the last of the three Rae lakes, past Dollar Lake, Arrowhead lake, a trout creek. I only lost an hour to the fish hunt before hiking on into Paradise Valley.
Aptly named. Green, lush hillsides cradled a riparian corridor with stately trees and tumbling, cold snowmelt in the stream at its center. If just two days ago I had been enraptured by the harsh rock and ice world while climbing Whitney, now I was reminded of how much I love valleys, how they rival peaks for the pleasure they bring. True, it can get pretty sweltering, and my Mosquito Entourage is usually there to meet me, but the valleys of the High Sierra seem... habitable. In that, they are comforting. Like if my feet both stopped working and I was stuck there, all I would need would be an axe and some good old-fashioned American can-do spirit, and I could create a homestead.
Which is of course completely absurd. I could not survive a month without fishing out every hole and trapping every squirrel. And even then, I would be some emaciated Atkins refugee looking guy. But it's a fun myth to have coaching your thoughts as they zoom around your head.
The descent ended at a single-track wooden suspension bridge. It swayed disconcertingly/awesomely as I walked over. I am not a huge fan of human intrusion into the natural world, obvi, but a wooden suspension bridge seemed so right, so in keeping with the environs.
Then it was back up to Pinchot pass -- both nothing to sneeze and nothing to write home about. There was snow, pretty abundant, but the route was extremely obvious because of the tracks in the snow.
These tracks finally crystallized something that had been floating around for a while. They were the most obvious demonstration of how are changing the trail just by being on it. As recently as my 2008 hike, this was a map and compass exercise, or even GPS. That meant looking at a map, figuring out which peak in your field of vision corresponded with which peak on the map. It was a different level of awareness about the terrain, one which brought history into the mix by introducing named peaks, valleys, and ranges. That valley is Dead Horse Valley; that mountain is Jenkins Peak.
Now, we just keep or he'd down and follow the path. Don't have to think at all.
I want to super clear about this: I am not blaming anyone. I am more to blame than most, because I keep hiking this trail. What I realized was that by being here to experience the PCT, I was destroying that experience. Crowds scare away wildlife; I was being deprived of seeing bear because of all the noise my fellow hikers make. But I was dong it right back to them. It is true: You cannot observe a phenomenon without altering it.
So we destroyed my 2008 hike experience; so what. The more important question is what has come in its place. I think it is also cool, but perhaps less transformative, less transcendental. And more like a house party. I see these gangs, posses, troops of loud youth banded together. By hiking together, they assure they will see no wildlife and experience no existential fear or vulnerability. But these experiences are the gateways to a better understanding of their, our, vulnerability, mortality, our place in the universe. My understanding of myself is as a small, essentially powerless mote in the nonexistent eye of the universe, and I am content with that. But that understanding, and my acceptance of it, came through my search for ecstatic truth through solitude.
But you know what else might be going on?I'm probably just getting old. And kids annoy old men.
After Pinchot, I bounced down into a valley and back up again, ending the day in Upper Basin. Wide open meadows with clumps of trees. It was so inviting. I found a suitable copse and set up camp.
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