The world of light

June 21

The mission this morning was crystal clear: to conquer Muir Pass. Oatmeal, tea, and onto the trail. 

The snow began pretty soon thereafter, but it was blissfully crispy and firm from the cold night. It was easy going; I could skip across the crust rather than wading through the slush. I made good use of the morning hiking hours, feeling strong and nimble. My pack, so punishingly laden with food as I left Kennedy Meadows, was now light enough to lift one-armed. 

It was good that I felt that way, because Muir is a marathon of a pass. It keeps on looking like you might be at the pass, but it's just a ledge, a false pass. That's how the trail ascends: ledge after ledge after ledge. On one of the ledges, I met two college kids, far too clean to be thru-hikers, informed me that it was naked hiking day.

"But you're clothed," I noted dryly. 

They hadn't been prepared for logic. It's, like, my secret weapon.

"We, uh, will hike naked later," the female of the pair explained. "It's because this is the longest day of summer." She paused. "If you don't hike naked, the rangers will give you a ticket," she said triumphantly. 

"It's the solstice? Awesome!" I love the solstice. I love sunlight, light generally really, and this is the day with the most of it. The rest of her pitch wasn't worth the effort to destroy. It isn't that Naked Hiking Day isn't a thing; I have been hearing about since the ancient days of my 1999 AT hike. It's just that... Well... Back in that golden year of hiking, my buddy Caboose participated, only to run into a troop of Girl Scouts. It serves as a parable.  

The light. Today was the perfect day for the solstice, because I was hiking on snow, meaning I got light from above and reflected from below. Muir famously called this the "Range of Light," and on this day, he was unequivocally right. I bathed in it. 

The pass finally tops out in a snowfield (duh) with a cool conically-roofed stone hut. I peeked in and found myself in the midst of the most typical Bay Area conversation possible: rents.

"We paid $2500 for a studio in Bushwick," a woman said. "We're moving to Portland," her husband said. I participated, playing my given role: The greyback hermit.

"We just have a little basement Berkeley apartment, but it's a total steal." 

Somehow this exchange was refreshing.

The fourth person in the hut was a self-described grumpy young man named Burrito. He had spent the night in the hut. "I saw guys walking past here at 11 last night," he said. 

"I think I know who they were," I replied, remembering the badasses. God bless 'em.

On the way down into Evolution Valley I met Shepherd and Danger Noodle. They were cool and fast, and we leapfrogged until dark. The dark was a relief after the light, although the mosquitos were the worst. We slept in a little bowl of sand, along with their buddy Rambler.