The veil of sleep was parted for me by a small terrier. He appeared to be of that tribe of small dogs who have the emotional equilibrium of a mimosa-drunk George Constanza bred right into them. Having taken up a secure position in the rocks some twenty feet away from my camp, he was firing his bark-ray directly at my shelter. I crash-landed into consciousness, got up and started making breakfast and dirty looks at the dog. This seemed to enrage him. Then again, everything seemed to enrage him. This included the next event: His owners, a dark-haired, pale, vaguely yuppyish couple that looked as similar as siblings, came over to make peace.
"He really doesn't like strangers," the woman said, one hand on her irate dog's heaving flank.
"Makes him scared," the man explained.
"Great dog for the woods then," I replied amicably. Well, I was trying for amicable, but my aim may have been a bit off.
The bezerking dog and his support team of owner/apologists retreated to their tent for their own breakfast. Soon enough, though, the dog returned, this time in stealthy double-agent mode. He snuck from rock to rock until he was finally almost close enough to touch. I offered him my hand; he smelled it and recognized me as an ally, then apologized for the unfortunate friendly-fire incident. I know he meant it, because he ate half of my grits before I could get the bowl away from him. Not all dogs belong in the woods, I thought.
I, of course, immediately ate the rest of the grits. That's my food! Didn't even occur to me until later that you're not supposed to eat a dog's leftovers. I guess not all humans belong in the city, I mused.
The trail took over a little notch in the bowl surrounding the lake, and then down past Purple Lake. It traversed a valley wall north of Fish Creek, then wandered northward past a big burn toward Red's Meadow Pack Station.
Red's Meadow, accesible by bus from Mammoth Lakes, is an extremely popular launch point for hikers. The trail was choked with hikers, many or most of them weekenders. Seeing so many non-thru-hikers was a jolt. Most striking was their dress. There were a lot of older men in costumes that approached the paramilitary, including some pretty crazy knives. One dude looked like he was trying to recreate a stillsuit from Dune -- all I could see of him was cloth, sunglasses, and the tube from his hydration pack in his mouth. There was a tribe of women in long flowing cotton dresses, and a tribe of younger men in earth tones and keffiyehs. I shudder to think what might occur if the young men dressed in jihadist drag and the old men dressed as commandos were to meet while night hiking.
None of it was really very practical hiking gear, but I cannot judge them too harshly. When we enter the wilderness, we do not dress based on what the challenges we will face therein; we dress based on our fears of danger and our hopes for our own identity. So the paramilitarists dress to defend themselves against brigands and bears, and they return home having conquered the mountains during their night out at a lake. The young men dress in the hopes that they can use nature to stop participating in a capitalist/imperialist/racist system, and return to their dorms having gained a romantic reverence for nature (which, they hope, might even get them laid). The women in flowing dresses? I... I just don't know.
And what do our clothes say about us, as thru-hikers? We may not dress for an action movie, but we are still showing our fellow humans our worldview: We like a full range of motion and care little about hygiene. But if you go one level deeper, our dress and comportment is also a way of expressing our own aspirational identity. I mean, we do not actually go feral, we just let our shirts get so dirty that it looks like it. We are all about simplifying and paring down, but don't you dare criticize my ice axe. And long-distance hikers are keenly attuned to the fashions of our fellow travellers. Big packs signify one thing (neophyte), tiny packs another (smugness), mylar umbrellas a third (unbearable smugness).
There is a difference, though. I don't often get on a soapbox about gear, but: Less gear does mean you more closely experience the wilderness. The things we carry into the wilderness help define what we are once we arrive. And the less you carry, the less you are imposing your own vision on the wilderness. If you doubt that, try sleeping under a tarpfor a while -- you really live immersed in the wild when you get rid of your last zippered door.
***
I pulled up on the lawn outside the store and cafe at Red's and dropped my pack (thus deftly switching from my hiker costume to my homeless-guy costume). The cafe was happy to see me and served me a great $12 reuben and a $7 chocolate malt. The store was likewise grateful for my business, which consisted of a six-pack of beer. Heck, I thought, it's a Saturday night. I'm going to take this beer for a walk.The trail splits right outside the pack station; you can take the official PCT, which looks pretty flat from the maps, or you can take the John Muir Trail, which is a bit more scenic. (The two trails rejoin 14 miles later.) I opted for the JMT, and half a mile later, I found myself staring up at Devil's Postpile.
in cross-section and fluid along their length. One of those "weird, huh?" kind of interactions with nature; less awe-inspiring and more like something you'd expect to see explained in a copy of an AARP magazine in a dentist's office. The other humans on hand were all Korean tourists, dutifully trooping to the top if the postpile and then back down again. I am not sure what they made of the smelly guy with the backpack and can of beer in his hand. It is apparently legal to drink beer while gazing at a Novelty of Nature, or at least the uniformed ranger who walked past me chose not to comment on my beverage.
The trail continued, past the foot of a beautiful meadow and then a few lakes. I continued as well, slowly sipping my way through my liquid bread. About an hour before dark, I was joined by another hiker, a guy I'd met for an hour the week previous. For the purposes of this post, we'll call him the other Guy, seeing as there are only two humans in the story. He explained that he had become separated from his "crew." He looked kind of anxious to get another one, like maybe he wasn't accustomed to sleeping alone in the woods. (It can take some getting used to.) We weren't really couple material, if you catch my drift-- he was too loud, I am too pickily misanthropic -- but somehow he established that we would be camping together that night.
I was most of the way through the beer by now, and feeling kinda gregarious. I was certainly not in the mood to outhike him or tell him off. So I agreed. We made camp under a tree some thirty off to the northeast of the trail. I made myself dinner, tucked the bearcan away, and fell right asleep.
I woke right back up. The Other Guy was saying something in a quiet, urgent voice:
"Bear. Bear. Bear."
"What?" I asked.
"There's a bear right there."
I snapped right into bear mode, yelling "HEY BEAR! HEY BEAR! HEY BEAR!" with my most authoritative voice.
"He's gone," the other guy said.
We got out of our tents and surveyed the situation. The bear had been snuffling around right where I cooked. I had left a stuff sack out, and it had been ripped to ribbons by Mr. Bear. He'd obviously examined my bearcan, some 50 feet away, but hadn't found anything useful to do with it. The Other Guy had stored his own bearcan right next to his tent, an oversight he immediately remedied. It was a kind of amateur move to cook in camp while in the Southern Sierra front country, but then again, I've done it a zillion times with no consequence.
"Well, let's hope he doesn't come back," I said. This is the nightmare scenario: Black bears tend to return to the scene of potential human nutrition again and again, like raccoons.
"Do you think he will?" the Other Guy asked in terror.
"Maybe! But there's not much we can do about it," I replied as I climbed back into my tent. And then I promptly fell asleep.
It occurs to me now that if the Other Guy had hoped for some safety in numbers or moral support, he was gravely mistaken. After all, what could be more disquieting then having your campmate suggest that the return of the Giant Death-Raccoon was likely imminent -- and then listening to him snore? In my defense, bears are part of life in the mountains, and there really isn't much use to worrying about them. They might make your life miserable, although they usually do not; they certainly do not listen to reason. Put another way: I figured that if the bear was going to come back, I should go ahead and grab forty winks winks before he did.
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