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Mt Hiker asks: "32 days in JMT? How do you plan the food resupply? Or fish is the main source of food?"

Rather than go into detail again, I offer up a story written, posted on HighSierraTopix a few years ago...easier to just cut and paste...enjoy.

Two Days of Food Remaining 3/27/07


For your winter enjoyment, I offer up a convoluted summer Sierra tale relating one of my first solo adventures…a catharsis of thinking…a trip that completely altered my basic backcountry philosophy.

Way back when, long before afflicted by the solo hiking bug, I was one of those who always pre-planned intended Sierra trips to the extreme - probably pre-influenced by the “tried and true” ways of my first backpacking guru, God bless. Continuing to carry out his persnickety rituals, whatever…those first-taught habits stuck. When venturing into places unknown: the beginnings of any new quest to seek out foreign Sierra treasures …I always copiously researched and dissected to the minutia – maps scrutinized, food rationed, campsites pre-determined, miles per day analyzed; he taught me fastidiously to plan it all out, to envision all contingencies, and to organize meticulously all beforehand. For him, and for the majority, (mostly those uncomfortable in the uncertain), this strategy certainly has merit – it does work, and is certainly the safer route.

However, much later in my wilderness career, only after all too many aborted trips… all those countless times having well intended partners bale out at the last minute… (at the time, seemingly having rational excuses)…”Sorry, I have to wash my hamster, my girlfriend thinks she is pregnant, something to do with work …bla, bla, bla”… invariably these justifications created unexpected voids, the end result always leaving me in somewhat of a frustrated lurch. It was just such a time, a long-planned trip to the general Ritter / Banner area, two college friends who swore that they wanted to try a week-long backpacking trip…(if only I selected the food, lent them the gear, did all the planning, and totally orchestrated the adventure). They would gladly split the costs later… (You know how this ends, right?)…”Oops, sorry, something came up”, and…”we just cannot make it…another time…maybe later on”… (Sound vaguely familiar to anyone?).

So there I was - mid-summer in the sweltering San Fernando Valley; backpack at the ready, car gassed, time taken off work, maps bought, and food for three carefully pre-packaged. This time, instead of just abandoning the dream, I opted simply to jump in the car, make the familiar drive…do this particular trip already planned out - alone. Having already done a few shorter solo treks previously, the thought of another unaccompanied adventure, although this time longer… much longer, neither frightened nor intimidated; to be truthful, did I had already begun to prefer my own company to that of most others anyway…Screw them, I could do this.

The initial part of the hike, starting out from Mammoth, went just as pre-planned…no major problems to speak of…good fishing, plenty of trail company here and there…all great times. A week later, coming off Donahue Pass, now pushing it a bit through the talus switchbacks, I quickly made my way downwards following the headwaters of the Lyell. The pace, a little bit of rushed, getting late, and I was intent on making camp soon, wanting to fish that final night along the river… near the fork in the trail that cuts off to Ireland, and that is where this story begins.

When I reached my evening’s destination…alas, taken, there was already one solo party camped at the split…ratty old canvas tent erected – all perched haphazardly under a sprawling Cedar, (many of you probably know the spot).
Whenever arriving at such an intended but occupied campsite area, where someone has already taken root (happily ensconced), it behooves one to take a moment and converse a spell, ascertain whether they welcome having company, (check if I really want to stay there), or whether I should move on a ways. Well, this person in front of me was a real Richard, if you catch my drift. While he gruffly mentioned not really minding the company… he did exude a certain belligerent tendency… seems he had to have all things his own particular way, and to make matters completely dismal, it appeared that he was totally clueless.

His camp, set only feet from the river…I asked him what he would do if perchance a Ranger showed, the permit restrictions… he barked back, “What #%&#!* permit…” (If I may translate – I suppose he was saying that he did not believe in permits). His Wal-Mart green backpack, (holding whatever else in unseen provisions), now set up as a pantry, easily reachable barely four feet off the ground and lashed non-securely against the tree. He had a monster fire ready to go…probably 6 feet across…no fire ring… filled with giant blackened logs10-feet long, sticking out of both ends of the pit. Also visible, he had, to top it all off, a cast iron pot for his cooking. When I merely queried him about his possibly breaking a few finicky regulations… incongruities, he said that this was his way of camping… the way it was supposed to be – just like his dad taught him….”Like it or leave”. Hoisting up my backpack, I was more than ready to move on down the trail, when, just then, another hiker, (called himself Dan), joined our party, trudging in from the trail above, and that is where this story truly unfolds.

Dan was a longhair, blonde-haired, a big strapping (maybe a bit imposing) lad possessing somewhat dated, but well-packed gear that looked technically excellent …you could tell from the outset that his backpack had seen many a trail mile. Just from his gate, you realized he obviously knew what he was doing, (quite the contrast to the inept buffoon sitting right in front of us)…Dan and I hit it off immediately. (FYI, there is that unspoken mountain dogma...the instant recognition of proficiency among equals)….plus, as an added bonus, he also sported what appeared to be a fishing tube strapped to the outside of his ancient brown Gregory – a fisherman too. With only a quick smile in my general direction, he immediately started in on the damn fool. “What the hell do you think you are doing?” he inquired…”Are you a complete idiot…Is that a fricking bear buffet...think that fire is big enough…couldn’t you find a heavier pot…camped a little close to the river…are you for real or what? I can still hear the retort, the loud swearing reverberating off the walls, as together we both meandered down the trail, searching for another convenient site a bit farther downstream… ah, the Lyell.

“Been following you for the better part of the last 4 miles, ever since the pass…you set a good pace…see you carry an old Gregory too…good choice…where you headed?” Soon, finding a sweet home for the evening, (far enough away), we set up camp together, talking now as if we were long-lost friends reunited. “How much food you have left?” he asked…”no matter, got some myself…up for some serious stream fishing before dinner, should be good here…want to get high?” Smiling back I quickly replied, “I have enough food for a few days, maybe three if I stretch it - lots of pasta and rice, getting low on the drink situation though… yes on the fishing, why do you think I carry this damn thing too…of course on the latter.” (Some things never change.)

Over a sumptuous trout dinner, I realized there was much I could learn from this solo hiker’s mannerisms – his outlook on life; he possessed a certain novel and invigorating attitude about backpacking the Sierra – spontaneous but no-nonsense…a mystique that was somewhat foreign to me…intriguing…a bit of a free spirit… possibly someone to emulate. “Where you headed next
…Tuolumne…Got a few extra days to kill…Let’s do Ireland.” With that sentence, in an instant, my plans blew out the window; now I was going up again, and I had to admit, I was okay with the decision. (FYI, around dusk, we both got a tremendous laugh out of an all too familiar ruckus emanating from up the trail…the sound of cast iron banging…then the discharge of a firearm! Moments later a large cinnamon bear scampering through our camp holding the shredded remains of that before-seen green backpack…the fool’s.)

Over the course of the next few hours at campfire, Dan related his basic dissertation; a take on trail manners…of special interest was his particular position on bartering in the backcountry. “To start with, attitude and timing is everything…first a warm smile…always show respect for the other party, but know that the majority of our fellow campers, especially those solo, would gladly share almost anything under the right circumstances, or if the price were right. The first thing to appreciate is that money per se in the high country is completely useless…there is nothing to buy, no place to spend it anyway…all of us are self-contained. After emphasizing that fact, he then continued on, listing a few of his basic postulates…not in any order of importance.

Toilet paper, mountain money, is a necessity…but few will part with any of theirs…but a spare roll can sweeten any deal.” Dan went on, stressing using this as a wise trading strategy only used as a last resort in any bargaining negotiation. “Cigarettes, a pack of Marlboros, can be gladly worth a day’s supply to the right party. It weighs next to nothing…lasts forever” and, and even though he confessed that he did not actually smoke, he always carried a few packs for those times where trails beckoned and food was scarce, especially camping the last days among the heavily traveled, popular campsites. “Everybody is trying to quit…most campers do not bring enough butts along, and at the right times they are worth their weight in gold. Just a mention of a cigarette at a friendly campfire, especially at those sites only a day’s hike in…invariably someone will pick up the hint…ka-ching.”

Marijuana, he considered pot and its “application”, much akin to a sacred High Sierra sacrament …holy, something spiritual, only shared never traded. He went on lovingly about never angering the mountain gods…never including the weed as a bargaining chip…its only use, (besides the obvious) was to ingratiate and honor the mountain. As I think back, he might have had a valid point here. Much the same with alcohol…single malt scotch to be specific - always allocated warmly among friends…a sign of mutual respect … never something that one foolishly trades away.

White gas deserved a mention here too…”people spill, accidents happen.” Dan told me that it was never considered bad manners to pop into any group, under the guise of needing a little gas…people always seem to understand the klutz factor. Not surprisingly, he found most, if not all, who carry white gas stoves will gladly part with a few ounces…anywhere, and this ploy served as a great way to break the ice. A smile first, then stating a tacit problem – soon you will be sitting next to any campfire – warmly accepted, hopefully with gas.

This leaves the only renewable (and dependable) backcountry Sierra resource as trout – Bows Brooks and Browns…and that is the crux of today’s tale. “Everybody fantasizes about sitting down to a trout dinner in the mountains…few are able to provide; here lies a great opportunity.” He continued…”I always make a point of taking the circuitous route, stopping by a neighbor’s campground, rod in hand, before heading out to fish. Hi neighbor, what’s for dinner…how about a trout feast among friends…if I’ll provide the trout…even cook it up, will you provide the rest of the fixings?” He told me to watch and see…the next day, after Ireland, we traversed across to Boothe Lake…and indeed, that night his plan worked…well.

“Where to now?” he offered, stretching out in the morning sun…”Still got a few days’s food left…How about south instead…the Valley?” Since my best-laid plans were already out the window, the fishing good, and the company enjoyable, we turned boots southward…in the general direction of Merced Lake, a good steady 7-hour march away. At the Ranger station above Merced, we made a left turn…”Washburn Lake is a much better place.” I knew Washburn well and the fishing there (for you HST readers…let us keep this destination a secret, huh?) is quite superb.

Having already gone into great lengths on the attributes of Washburn in previous tales, I will spare you any of the physical descriptions. However, on this trip, three isolated vignettes deserve attention…as they directly pertain to this particular trip. First, there once was (long gone now) perhaps the greatest of all outhouses, conveniently situated steps from the outlet. With the door open…facing north…any morning rituals took on mythical status. Sitting on that throne, door swung open…cleaner than reasonably expected…this experience was something to look forward to…comfort with a grand view… even from miles away, as lovingly anticipated as the burgers at the Portal…it’s passing deserves documentation.

Secondly, even though our food supply was barely adequate at best, the fishing good, and our reefer supply better, we had run out of rolling papers. Now, for you pot smokers out there, (I know there must be one or two.) having a good bud stash, but with no physical way to consume it…we had to find some remedy fast. I make it a point always to carry a paperback novel on all my trips, this time a Western …Slocum’s Revenge…cheesy. (For any of you hikers out there, in most of the High Sierra Camps…I know at Vogelsang…also at Merced…the park service offers a small trade-in library service…open to all comers. You bring in any book, and they allow you to trade it in on whatever is available. I picked this one up from Vogelsang two days earlier.) Our solution was to take a page from Slocum’s…carefully hand rubbing it for a good half hour into a ball…removing the starch…and rolling away. Hence forth on this trip, any extra-curricular activity of that nature at Washburn went under the sobriquet of “Smoking Slocum’s.” (I guess you had to be there.) If you happen to see this book at the Merced HSC, (I confess, I traded it back in), missing the first chapter, I hope you understand.

Lastly, at the far end of Washburn, back among the weeds and Alders, there a basic family unit of four had taken up a two-week residence, their version of a vacation package. They mentioned paying a stock packer a veritable fortune to bring in a more-than-adequate supply of fresh food. Unfortunately for them, fortunately for us, they forgot to bring any fishing gear along, and the wife loved trout. Bartering Dan was once again in his element.

One fish for a Wyler’s lemonade, two for a couple packages of hot chocolates, a string for mashed potatoes and salad…this went on for days. They supplied the sides; we provided the fish and the firewood… I do not think we ever took down our own food, (This trip long before bearcans); they had more than ample…we ate many a trout and thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. The youngest son we temporarily adopted …under the guise of teaching him how to fish… (In the end we could not get rid of the damn kid), but even that in itself was a treat…17 miles in.

Three wonderful days fishing and one easy 11-mile hike later, we found ourselves soaking our trail weary dogs in the Merced at LYV – (sorry to all of those downstream) – then camping at middle of the old riverside campground in the midst of what seemed like hundreds of one-day-in backpackers. The best part of LYV is that it provides a well-earned buffer zone between the Valley floor zoo and all those past backcountry moments of isolated solitude. Arriving late, too late to fish, Dan resigned himself to actually cooking up one of our few remaining, bottom-of-the-stuffsack, freeze-dried, dinner entrees. He figured it was either that or starve - (already traded the Marlboros.) Dropping my Chili-Red Gregory…thud…I spotted a few guitar players strumming along…not bad pickers… sprawled across the busy playground. From deep inside my Gregory’s bowels, I grabbed up my trusty silver flute, immediately launching into some bluesy rendition of whatever came out.

Much to Dan’s surprise…not to me, though…crowds started milling, extra food offered…alcohol…the typical gambit…grateful bounty from overstocked but well-meaning hangers on. Music was one extra bargaining chip that Dan did not have in his scavenging quiver, but after a week’s adventure with him, nothing ever again food-wise will seem far-fetched or impossible. That last trail night, we once again ate and drank well…typical, all provided for by the generosity of others…unexpected, yes, but hardly unforeseen after all we had encountered …all starting with a smile.

Happy Isles came soon enough, followed by a pitcher of Margaritas and the customary (but still bad) Curry pizza; money was useful again. Somewhere in that last conversation, before my boarding the Yarts bus back to Mammoth, Dan turned to me and asked, “How much food did you have left, after all our week-long, extemporaneous, grand, fishing, adventures?” I just smiled back answering, amazed by my final answer… I still had two days of food remaining.

Another solo backpacking adventure…by markskor

Sounds fishy? nah, excellent narrative. Thank you for the story.

Back in the '70s, a friend named Fred was a student at Brooks. And also 30-40 lbs. overweight.

He would set out with a 35 mm Nikon with lenses & film, plus a 2 1/4 SLR Hasselblad plus film, and also a 8X10 view camera with tripod & plates.

Out for a fortnight, big pack, no room for food. So he didn't take any. Don't recall whether he fished..

And one more...enjoy!

The Wedding in the High Sierra May 30, 2006

Having most of my summers off for the past 20 years or so (I am a high school teacher), these blessed months invariably found me wandering high among the Sierra, usually roaming freely on consecutive extended 10- 12 day excursions. The quandary of re-stocking provisions, how and where, habitually presented itself; my solution – utilizing those twenty or so seasonal establishments located conveniently, always where the high trail meets the road.

We all know most of them all too well: the Tuolumne store, the store at Rock Creek Lake, the tram up to Mammoth, the log cabin store at Mineral King, Florence Lake, etc – these all readily come to mind. There are many more – all are but seasonal oases: consider also VVR, Saddlebag, Bridgeport, Sabrina, and the Virginia Lake complex. Even though the prices are always outlandish, the selection barely adequate; for backpacking, besides food, all that I actually required was a hot shower, the use of a washing machine, hopefully a hot meal, a bar stool serving cold beer, and a safe place to set-up the tent nearby for a night or two. Anything else, any added adventure, I consider just an additional bonus.

Many people plan – meticulously, charting destinations and schedules, pre-packaging white 5-gallon buckets, mailing all ahead in advance, everything arranged to the nth detail - not I; that has never been my style. Instead, my sole strategy consisted in thoroughly packing up my trusty Shasta… stocked, strapping down my Trailmaster pole, making sure that I had my Visa, heading toward Tuolumne or wherever, finding my mountain legs, and trusting in the mountain gods to lead me where they wanted me to go next. Trust in fate and the next trip – wherever that may be – always takes care of itself.

Most of these fine afore-mentioned establishments stock all the required basics: Mac and cheese, Lipton rice packages, instant oatmeal, Crystal lite, fresh garlic, cooking oil, spices, white gas, fishing lures and flies, and a wide assortment of candy – what more do you really need. You are surely going to stop in and wander about any store located at any trailhead anyway…for the next leg of an upcoming trip, might as well do all the shopping up there. Fresh fruit and cold beer never seem to travel pre-packaged that well anyhow, besides there may be something amazing, right around a corner that you might just miss.

On a previous solo JMT adventure, I once tried the mail-ahead food drop approach; I soon discovered that the worry, cost, and time spent sorting things out beforehand never rationalized the ease of just popping in somewhere and seeing what was readily available right there on site. When you figure in the cost of shipping, storage, and worry that all might get lost in transit, my way invariably computed cheaper in the end, especially when travelling solo as is my norm. Today, with the wide assortment of quality freeze-dried pre-packaged meals available everywhere, the eagerness of those operating these establishments to select and stock what successfully sells, and the ability to always trade fresh trout for whatever was missing…well, let us just say that I seldom go hungry on any trail. I firmly believe in being friendly, interacting with the locals, smiling a lot, and helping wherever I can…these are the desired traits of my kind of backpacker.

This solo backpacking tale begins on a Thursday, late June, this day finding me freshly showered and clean-shaven, sitting on a well-used barstool just a few paces off 100+ hard miles of the JMT, hot turkey sandwich, cold Budweiser, and Vin Scully announcing the Dodger game on the antique TV above the bar…all High Sierra in an intentionally unnamed alpine lake location. There were four other stools available; one soon occupied by a Father O’Malley, it seems a Catholic priest on weekends and a hard-working logger during the week – he was drinking Jack Daniels - neat. Behind the bar, Richard, the owner-operator of the complex, continuously regaled us with humorous anecdotes of his summer Sierra life including stories about his misguided and ungrateful children, his army days, his numerous overseas adventures, and whatever else happened to come to mind at the moment.

I told them about my past, tending bar in New Orleans, my time working as a Wine Stewart on the Mississippi Queen, (a giant tourist steamship running along the big muddy), being a Butler at Harrah’s Lake Tahoe 16th floor. As we drank on, I mentioned my learning the art of tableside flambé and other fine-dining chores for the affluent of Palm Springs’ mega-rich, and my now being a high school instructor. Father O’Malley, now warming to the occasion, (ordering still another Jack…man, that priest could do shots…), enlightened us about his days elk hunting in Alaska, the perils of the logging business, the hypocrisy of being a priest in today’s Catholic church, and lastly, about an upcoming wedding that he was performing right here at the lake in a day or two. Once he started drinking and talking…that priest could party with the best.

The ball game went into extra innings, we bought each other rounds; it was one of those slow, sultry afternoons and we spent most of it laughing, becoming friends, and generally just shooting the shit among life’s equals – the Sierra has a strange way of bringing total strangers together quickly. As evening approached, Richard pulled me aside and asked me how long I was staying here, and since I obviously knew bartending and food service, would I perhaps be interested in helping out at the upcoming wedding festivities. I told him I was backpacking the Muir, pausing here briefly…intending only to re-stock, but I would consider it an honor to assist him, for a small trade… perhaps in food supplies for my next trip… (I bet you were wondering how this all tied together).

Richard mentioned that there was a rehearsal dinner scheduled the next night, and if I liked, I would assist in serving the pre-feast, and on Saturday afternoon was the wedding itself, I would be the bartender. He said that, in trade, I could take a week’s packaged food from the store for providing the much-needed service help, but he also made a point of warning me that these folk might be a little rough around the edges. A bit puzzled but intrigued, I still agreed; we shook hands and all did one final shot before retiring… back to my tent - home.

The next day I arrived on station about noon, (slightly hurting if you get my drift). Richard supplied me with a freshly starched white kitchen smock to wear, (with my hiking boots…it was either that or my Keen sandals), and he pointed me in the direction of a nearby dilapidated banquet room where the facility planned the pre-ceremony dinner. After quickly meeting the cook and checking supplies, I went to work…years of past restaurant experience telling me well what I had to do next. Formally a banquet captain, I was already very comfortable in this type of environment.

Rather than give you a minute-by-minute run down, suffice to say, I will tell you some of the major highlights of the nuptials. The priest arrived first, shod in logging boots, driving up in a NUCO L, front-end loader tractor (you know… the one with the dented 60-inch bucket). Next, the bride and groom came; families in tow…they were a large family too. When I say large, I mean that the bride weighed in about 400 pounds, a pretty woman, young, blond, smiling all the time; her name was Joyce. The soon-to-be husband, John, marine haircut – short and tight – he slightly outweighed the bride, and he was the smallest of the rest of the four brothers, all present now and all close at hand – (in truth, it was actually a demonstrably butt-ugly family).

The evening’s instructional dinner, grandly presided over by Father O’Malley, went as well as expected; in attendance were perhaps 40 guests present altogether – I served them spaghetti… with world-class flair. The only unexpected hick-up in the entire evening occurred when the bride announced that one of the brothers, (the one missing a front tooth), would not be allowed in the wedding party, as his dental gap would undoubtedly spoil the upcoming wedding pictures – (fat chance that). Apparently, he did not take to this news too well and he consequently stormed out, swearing up a blue streak, squealing his bald tires, throwing up a cloud of rocks and pebbles, peeling out of the gravel parking lot in an old rusted Ram Charger - (Starting to get the picture?).

On a side note, my waiter duties precluded hearing the majority of the nuptial discussions or most of the wedding instructions themselves; I can relate though that Father O’Malley drank his way through the entire evening…spouting both Latin and lumberjack-ese in equal proportions, swearing along too. He was always totally in charge though – the guests dutifully instructed; they all apparently left happy, all seemingly understanding their specific duties at tomorrow’s upcoming gala soiree.

The wedding day arrived, cool and clear, brisk and bracing; Richard set up the wedding station at the end of a short wooden pier, at the end of a gravel dirt path, looking over a glass-smooth, azure-blue, 8000-foot, alpine lake – Sierra magic – not a bad scene altogether. On the pier itself, he solidly positioned an old wooden rowboat…center stage…sturdily propped up…extra bracing. Here was obviously the designated place for the bride and groom to exchange their vows. The groom arrived first, clad in a traditional black tuxedo; unfortunately, obviously unable to find a formal jacket that fit him correctly, he popped off a few lower buttons, belly hanging out noticeably as he waited nervously near the makeshift altar.

The bridesmaids “pranced” up next; all wearing something billowy, in lavender and green – ghastly, followed closely by the blushing bride (I think she might have been in a bit of a hurry though, as she literally sprinted up the gravel driveway, towing her obviously relieved dad along closely behind her). She was a radiant picture, clad in a low cut, white-satin dress with the obviously swollen-with-pride dad now adorned in a crisp tuxedo… (When I say closely behind, I mean in hammerlock tow). After the traditional wedding-march entrance, (FYI, I did not realize that there was that much white silk available in all of California), both the bride and groom somehow managed to climb into the boat, facing forward …towards the lake, and the priest, after a few choice introductory words (and a perfunctory shot), he handed them each one oar. Father O’Malley brilliantly presided over the rest of the entire wedding as a metaphor – the oars symbolizing the necessity of each pulling together blindly as they headed across the figurative lake of married life – obviously, he had done this before…quite effectively too I might add.

The nuptials over, I now went to work behind a well-stocked outside bar – ready, located close to the dock; beer and tequila were the main orders of the day….and of course a few bottles of Jack. The bridal party came over first, doing regular and continuing shots of Patron Anejo with Budweiser chasers, (I thought it just the perfect choice of libations for a hot afternoon event… at altitude…God help them later). The subsequent lakeside reception party came off fairly well; it got only a little out of hand when at one point a couple of the groom’s attendants got into a boisterous fight, rolling around noisily in the dirt…lots of shoving and shouting, but few actual punches thrown…much akin to a baseball rhubarb…I guess, no harm, no foul. Some family members decided it was then time to decorate the honeymoon car…you know…clever soaped witticisms …tying on tin cans…that sort of thing. It was all well intentioned except for the fact that they somehow completely picked the wrong car to embellish… and later, an unknown angler, off on the lake fishing for the day, joined the party… wondering what he hell was going on with his automobile. I quickly smoothed him over with a few quick rounds… last seen a few hours later; I spotted him, still wearing his fishing ensemble, doing a respectable fox trot with the bride’s mother. (I guess you had to be there to appreciate the moment.)

The initial solo dance of the bride and groom came next, closely resembling the start of an ancient Sumo wrestling bout, each one only barely able to reach the other’s shoulders… a tender and loving display nonetheless. Following that spectacle was the traditional cake-cutting ceremony, complete with cake in the face, and afterward, the best man’s toast…well; maybe I should just leave that part better unreported, as most of what followed was far too crude to repeat here anyway. Lastly it was time for the group celebratory wedding picture…I guess the bride relented, now allowing the afore-described bucktooth brother to join in and be included in the memorable Kodak moment.

Needless to say, this was the most unique wedding I ever had the pleasure of attending anywhere. As the party wound down, half of the wedding guests changed into fishing clothes… the other half did not bother as most wore jeans. Anyway, nearly everyone in attendance decided to grab their poles and tackle boxes, and either rent some boats, or just put theirs into the water, and engage in some drunken evening fishing …the evening rise…finally bringing to a close the wedding festivities that day at the lake.

On a side note, somewhere along the line I did manage to fill my nalgene bottle with Grand Mariner - (for medicinal purposes only), intended for my next day’s upcoming (and continuing) JMT backpacking excursion. The next morning early, I went to the small grocery store, finding Richard absent but discovering had left for me a $75 credit for supplies, just enough to restock my Bearikade. That done, the chili-red Shasta packed up again…snug, I happened to run into him outside… he thanked me profusely for all my professional help, and lastly, in passing, he mentioned again, how he had indeed warned me about the guests beforehand…I now understood. We paused, looked in each other’s eyes, shook hands, and then laughed heartedly. Soon enough I was out on the morning ferry and once again hiking away on the trail alone, solo climbing out of the valley towards some distant lofty High Sierra pass…the Muir.

In retrospect, the wedding was something unforgettable; it was indeed different. More than that though, this experience reinforced my philosophy of trusting in karma, taking what was available, and rolling with it. Sure, when going for a re-supply stash, you can do it all beforehand – the traditional way. There is merit in covering all contingencies, especially when going with a large group or in a hurry, as many of us are want to be in these days. However, much like living in the city and never knowing your next-door neighbors, by remaining isolated you can easily miss the considerable local flavor found near at hand. By being flexible, you invite the indefinite, and can profit considerably from the unknown. It only cost me two trail days, but what I gained was immeasurable: meeting Father O’Malley, Richard, and all the other gala festivities…and most importantly, the wedding in the High Sierra.

Another solo hiking adventure … by markskor