Joel, Finally

Last weekend included an annual winter camping trip to Yosemite with Friend 1 and Friend 2 (Friend 3's car broke down before he got far from home), though this year involved little snow in Camp 4. One highlight of the trip include a coyote that stopped just yards from our tents the first night and howled as loudly as I've heard a coyote howl. One of its friends, somewhere distant, answered, then both went silent and we heard nothing more of them for the rest of the stay. A second highlight was the annual beer-tasting that involved several different kinds of brew before dinner. I have come to like this tradition.

And one hike took us to Columbia Rock, a nice overlook part way up the trail to Yosemite Falls. We saw this, Half Dome in the distance:


That same day included a 2-hour cross country ski at Badger Pass--hiking and skiing the same day.

On the long drive home, as I sit in the truck and left the driving to someone else, I remembered back a few years when Friend 1 and Friend 2 took me to Southern California for a backpacking trip that would take us over Bishop Pass, a pass that is just inches below Mt. Everest and where oxygen is a rare element.

The hike over the pass was long and difficult--my pack and I were both too heavy for such a thing. Friend 1 was always far ahead (and above) me as I tried my best to keep up; Friend 2 was hot on my heels, probably just to make sure I did not reverse direction and head back downhill. At some point I was hiking alone, which was fine, and when I reached the pass (see the picture at the top of the page), my companions were sitting on some rocks, resting and eating a snack. Friend 1 pointed out how pounds of salt seemed to have solidified on my shirt. This is something that has caused him no small amount of glee in the years since, and I am glad to have made someone so happy for so long.

The next day, still full of wimpfullness and fatigue, I opted to stay behind for a night while Friend 1 and Friend 2 dropped themselves into a canyon many, many, many thousands of feet below where I would be sleeping. "Have fun," I thought, "leave me here to die."

The morning they left, I was comfortable beside a small stream, reading a book after returning from a short hike to a nearby lake. As I read, a man younger than I strolled into camp--with big, down slippers on his feet. I have slippers like these, and they are very, very warm in winter. This, I learned was Joel, and he had come here to backpack with some of his friends, all of whom had left because he was too tired to walk on and had blisters the size of New Hampshire on his heels. He said that had not made clear to him how difficult the hike would be, and I sensed a bit of sadness. I told him I empathized with both the fatigue and the blisters. On one trip to the Hoover Wilderness many years ago, I got my feet wet in a creek even before we reached the trailhead. And, rather than stop and put on dry socks, I let my heavy, leather Vasque Sundowners wear literal bloody divets in my heels. I spent 5 days hiking with those damned sore spots, and when I eventually got home, I told my wife that I would never go backpacking again.

But, Joel... We spent quite awhile talking, and he told me how he was once in good shape and could do these trips with no problem. He did not seem especially peeved that his friends had either dragged him along or had deserted him, and soon he ambled out of my camp and disappeared.

And then appeared again the day Friends 1 and 2 and I ascended the opposite slope of the pass on our way out of the wilderness. We encountered Joel standing in the shade of a small tree, where he had stopped to rest. His friends were already at the top of the pass and were communicating with him via hand-held radio. I gave him the last of my Tang, which he appreciated because he had no water, and my friends and I talked with him awhile to make sure he was okay. I believe we even offered to help carry his pack so that he could climb the pass. But, as we got ready to move on, he got a call from a companion saying that a horse packer had offered to ride down the trail and retrieve the poor guy. There was probably a financial cost for this, but I'm sure Joel would gladly have paid. We left him there, crossed over the pass, and soon thereafter found a suitable place to spend the night.

Over the years I have thought of Joel, of how he felt during out encounters. I have 2 images of him in memory: walking around with those big down slippers, and standing in the shade of that tree while drinking my Tang. I have always hoped that he made it out of there okay, and that he didn't feel as though he had burdened his friends.

I learned some things on that trip: how to eliminate weight from my pack before leaving home, and how to wear lightweight shoes. I don't know if Joel had any regrets, but I do know that I never have. It ended up being a great trip--and I'd do it again given the chance.