Bill and I had decided the night before we left for backpacking that if we ended our trip early, we would head to Tahoe and spend a few days relaxing at my parents' condo. Since the idea was not definitive, and very last minute, we didn't necessarily plan for it. When we got to Tahoe, the only clothes and items that I had were the things that I'd brought backpacking. All of a sudden the clothes that had served me so well for the last five days made me feel embarrassed and self-conscious.
Immediately after the hike, we stopped at a nearby restaurant to satisfy our craving for "real food." With my legs covered in thick matted dirt, my hair sticking stiffly to my head from sweating in a hat for 9 hours, and my general smelly hiking attire, I felt disgustingly conspicuous.
We licked our plates clean within 5 minutes of the food hitting our table. Our plates were damn near spinning when we headed out. I made sure to leave a good tip since I feared we may have been the reason the tables surrounding us remained unoccupied.
On the car ride to Tahoe I checked my texts and all the social medias. After scrolling through Facebook for about a half hour, I declared to Bill that I'm deleting the app from my phone. It wasn't much of a commitment since I hadn't gone as far as deleting my account, but I felt it would still be a step in a positive (not technology-addicted) direction.
"I should delete Clash of Clans too..." I declared less definitively. Facebook and Clash of Clans were by far the two apps I wasted the most time on. Sometimes I'd go on my phone to send a text, and 30 minutes later I'd have FB stalked 5 people, and reorganized my Clash of Clans village, but not sent the text. With some remorse, I bid farewell to my internet friends/clan mates, and removed the app from my phone.
We took cold showers (the hot water hadn't been turned on yet), did laundry and crashed in what felt like the world's most comfortable bed.
The next day I was on a mission to get a mani-pedi. With my nails so disgustingly brown and chipped, I felt that there was nothing in the world that could make me feel better. I threw on my wool hiking socks, boots, hiking pants, and work-out shirt and headed to a nearby salon.
After my mani pedi, we stopped in CVS and I bought a three pack of cotton white ankle socks for $4. I tore off my sweaty wool socks and replaced them with my new crisp white ones.
"Look at you in your fancy ankle socks!" Bill exclaimed.
"I know! It's wonderful!" I remarked genuinely.
The mani-pedi was great, but these ankle socks made me feel even better. They somehow made me feel like a more civilized human being - like someone who was meant to be around other people. When I got back to the condo, I retired my wool socks for the rest of the trip.
Monday, August 31, 2015
Day 96 - The Hike Out
At Lower Buck Lake we were about a 13 mile hike out of the forest. We decided to hike 9 miles back to Grouse Lake, and then hike 4 miles out the next day.
I set my alarm for the first time since we started backpacking so that I would be sure to catch the sunrise. It had been spectacular yesterday, but I hadn't been able to muster the strength to get out of my sleeping bag and take a picture.
However, like the stars at Gem Lake, that sunrise was a one-time thing. This morning dark grey clouds covered the opening in the mountains that the sun had shined so brightly through yesterday.
Even though the sunrise was not so spectacular, it was still a beautiful sight to watch as the sun finally peaked above the cloud cover, and the mountains slowly came to life.
Since we were up by dawn, we got an extra early start to our hike. We passed over familiar ground, going more or less the same way that we'd hiked in. I was in awe at much better the hike out felt than the hike in had. I knew that there were multiple reasons for this: it was downhill instead of uphill, we'd eaten a lot of the weight and had adjusted to the altitude, and most importantly, we had enough water. I had the "bro-y" (according to Bill) realization that it felt like the first and last downward dog in yoga. I walked over the same rocks out as I did in, yet I felt so different the second time around. I was relaxed and calm, rather than stressed and somewhat frantic. By the time we finished 9 miles and reached Grouse Lake, I felt better than I had the first time we reached the same lake after hiking only 4 miles in.
I set my alarm for the first time since we started backpacking so that I would be sure to catch the sunrise. It had been spectacular yesterday, but I hadn't been able to muster the strength to get out of my sleeping bag and take a picture.
However, like the stars at Gem Lake, that sunrise was a one-time thing. This morning dark grey clouds covered the opening in the mountains that the sun had shined so brightly through yesterday.
Even though the sunrise was not so spectacular, it was still a beautiful sight to watch as the sun finally peaked above the cloud cover, and the mountains slowly came to life.
Just before sunrise
As the sun peaked above the clouds
Since we were up by dawn, we got an extra early start to our hike. We passed over familiar ground, going more or less the same way that we'd hiked in. I was in awe at much better the hike out felt than the hike in had. I knew that there were multiple reasons for this: it was downhill instead of uphill, we'd eaten a lot of the weight and had adjusted to the altitude, and most importantly, we had enough water. I had the "bro-y" (according to Bill) realization that it felt like the first and last downward dog in yoga. I walked over the same rocks out as I did in, yet I felt so different the second time around. I was relaxed and calm, rather than stressed and somewhat frantic. By the time we finished 9 miles and reached Grouse Lake, I felt better than I had the first time we reached the same lake after hiking only 4 miles in.
Our packs taking a break a the lake
Bill jumped in the water, but I was deterred by all the critters that inhabited the lake. Being at a lower altitude than the other lakes, there were far more bugs, reptiles and amphibians at Grouse. It was fun to watch them jump and slither around, but I preferred not to swim with them.
Bill's swimming companion
The day was still young, and we surprisingly still had energy. After the mention of cheeseburgers and pizza, the idea of just hiking all the way out was put on the table. I wasn't sure I could stomach another freeze dried meal, for reasons I won't describe, and the thought of warm, real food had never before sounded so appealing.
So we grabbed our bags and trekked the last four miles out of the forest. It was a little rough at the end - the second to last mile is a steep uphill climb - but overall it wasn't bad. We took a little break after the uphill climb, before our final mile. I was proud of both of us, and happy at the thought of eating, but I was also a little sad. I don't think I'd ever experienced a vacation so entirely relaxing as this trip had been. As we walked along the path towards the parking lot where 'Ol Prizy (Bill's Chevy Prizm) was parked, I buzzed on and on about where our next backpacking trip should be.
At the top of the hill with one mile left
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Bear Can't Even
Because there are bears in the Emigrant Wilderness, we had to store all of our food in bear cans. At one point during our hike I loudly exclaimed, out of context, "more like bear can't!"
Bill, not having read my mind for the last 10 minutes, didn't know what I was talking about.
"Wouldn't that be a good brand name for a bear can?" I asked. "Bear can't!"
Then I thought of something even better. "There should be a bear can company geared towards young millennial woman who read Wild and think that backpacking can solve all their problems (like me). And it should be called 'Bear can't even!'"
I even pictured a 1950's-style ad-comic (with just the right amount of sexism), where a large eye-lashed, she-bear asks her strong male counterpart to open the bear can for her (like a can of pickles). She hands it over to him with a look of exasperation saying "I can't even..."
He struggles and struggles, as his large bear muscles bulge, but alas he can't open it either. She-bear walks away in a disappointed huff. With black anger swirls over his head he-bear mumbles, "I can't even..." referring to the high maintenance she-bear.
As I described the scenario to Bill I realized that this ad would never work if we were gearing the product towards strong women. Nevertheless, I continued to think about the exasperated bear couple for the next half hour or so, randomly shouting out new ideas, as if it had been equally on Bill's mind this whole time.
Bill, not having read my mind for the last 10 minutes, didn't know what I was talking about.
"Wouldn't that be a good brand name for a bear can?" I asked. "Bear can't!"
Then I thought of something even better. "There should be a bear can company geared towards young millennial woman who read Wild and think that backpacking can solve all their problems (like me). And it should be called 'Bear can't even!'"
I even pictured a 1950's-style ad-comic (with just the right amount of sexism), where a large eye-lashed, she-bear asks her strong male counterpart to open the bear can for her (like a can of pickles). She hands it over to him with a look of exasperation saying "I can't even..."
He struggles and struggles, as his large bear muscles bulge, but alas he can't open it either. She-bear walks away in a disappointed huff. With black anger swirls over his head he-bear mumbles, "I can't even..." referring to the high maintenance she-bear.
As I described the scenario to Bill I realized that this ad would never work if we were gearing the product towards strong women. Nevertheless, I continued to think about the exasperated bear couple for the next half hour or so, randomly shouting out new ideas, as if it had been equally on Bill's mind this whole time.
Day 95 - Without our Packs
We decided to stay two nights at Buck Lake, and therefore had another beach day. After lounging and reading for a while, I grew restless and got Bill to go on a day hike with me. We left our heavy packs and took off to explore the area around beautiful Buck Lake.
Upper Buck Lake
We walked around the upper edge of the lake, and headed towards Deer Lake on the north side. The path just kept ascending, so we decided to make our way to the top to see if there was a view. And there was...
Bill's realm
We sat on the peak for a while, but it began to feel lonely. I couldn't see or hear anyone anywhere in the vast wilderness. It's odd how it feels so good to be alone by the lake's edge surrounded by mountains, but so empty to be alone at the mountain's peak.
So we headed back down towards the shores of Buck Lake, where we passed the rest of the day.
Our campsite at Buck Lake
We spent the afternoon in the crystal clear water, swimming from island to island, exploring caves, and boulders on foot and in water. In the early evening I read more of Anna Karenin, a novel I once thought too intimating to start, but was now deep into.
I watched the sun set behind the mountains, and went to bed shortly after. I would open my eyes every once and a while to remind myself of the beauty around me.
Sirens
Last night I heard sirens. Although being almost 10 miles away from the nearest road, I knew that this was impossible, that I was hearing phantom noises.
At every house and apartment I've lived in in San Francisco, I would hear sirens almost every night. The sound was always a stressful reminder of the fragility of life. Although in this context, the sound seemed different to me. Even though there was no real such noise, it was comforting, as though help would be nearby if needed.
In truth, there was complete silence. Maybe I was hearing these phantom sirens because my brain couldn't comprehend a silence so pure. Maybe my mind knew that I was a little frightened of being alone in the woods, and it wanted to calm me, so it created a noise synonymous with home.
Whatever the cause, I eventually drifted off to sleep to a nonexistent chorus of ambulances.
At every house and apartment I've lived in in San Francisco, I would hear sirens almost every night. The sound was always a stressful reminder of the fragility of life. Although in this context, the sound seemed different to me. Even though there was no real such noise, it was comforting, as though help would be nearby if needed.
In truth, there was complete silence. Maybe I was hearing these phantom sirens because my brain couldn't comprehend a silence so pure. Maybe my mind knew that I was a little frightened of being alone in the woods, and it wanted to calm me, so it created a noise synonymous with home.
Whatever the cause, I eventually drifted off to sleep to a nonexistent chorus of ambulances.
Day 94 - Truly Alone
We got up early at Gem lake after a good night's sleep. I'd only woken up once during the night, and saw through the mesh at the top of my tent, the milky way. I'd never seen the stars so bright and plentiful before, and being half asleep, I almost thought that I'd dreamed it. I would wake up every night after, trying to see the same brilliance, but I was never able to see the stars like that again. The moon was waxing, and was likely the culprit.
We ate breakfast, packed up all of our things, and said goodbye to Gem lake. It had been good to us, but we were growing restless and were ready to move on.
As we hiked towards Buck Lake, where we were planning on spending the next night, we passed more and more beautiful scenery.
Unlike the first day of hiking, this day was mostly flat, and narrated by lakes and streams. Not to mention that our packs were noticeably lighter from all the food we'd eaten.
We took our first break at Wood Lake, where I pulled out my book and read, while Bill fished.
We ate breakfast, packed up all of our things, and said goodbye to Gem lake. It had been good to us, but we were growing restless and were ready to move on.
As we hiked towards Buck Lake, where we were planning on spending the next night, we passed more and more beautiful scenery.
Unlike the first day of hiking, this day was mostly flat, and narrated by lakes and streams. Not to mention that our packs were noticeably lighter from all the food we'd eaten.
We took our first break at Wood Lake, where I pulled out my book and read, while Bill fished.
Bill fishing
After reading for a bit, I climbed up some boulders to see if I could get a better view of the lake. I waited until I reached the top before I turned around, and saw that there was a whole mountain range that had been hiding behind the trees.
Peak-a-boo!
Wood Lake was so long, that by the time we reached the end of it, we were almost at our destination, Buck Lake.
Walking along Wood Lake
As we reached our campsite at Buck Lake, I couldn't believe that there was still another lake more beautiful than the two we'd seen already. Having arrived at just about lunch time, after our leisurely hike, we munched on cheese, salami and crackers, and enjoyed another cocktail by our new private beach. I stretched out my tired legs, and breathed in the fresh air. At 14 miles in, we were truly alone.
Lower Buck Lake
The Ant
By the second day of our trip, I still hadn't gotten completely used to every tickle on my body being an ant or a spider. I would usually hope that it was the former, and it usually was. The ants were so large, that you could almost feel each individual step on your skin.
I would be lying on a warm rock by the lake, and feel something slowly moving up my arm. Rather then slap at it, I would usually sit up and blow the ant off. He would fly off my arm, onto a rock nearby and continue crawling along, unfazed.
At one point I reached for my water bottle, and there was a large ant crawling up the side. I shook the bottle, but he gripped tight and didn't budge. So I hit the bottle against a rock a couple times to try to shake him off. In my clumsy attempt, I hit his little ant body on the rock. He fell from the bottle, staggered a bit and then stopped moving.
I sat for a moment, feeling oddly remorseful, as I stared at his motionless curled body. I'd never in my life felt so sorry for killing an ant.
I spray at them mercilessly at home, wiping them off my counters, thinking "not in my house."
But this wasn't my house. This was his house. I felt as silly as I did remorseful, as I used a leaf to pick his little body up, and put him into the lake, where he floated away.
I would be lying on a warm rock by the lake, and feel something slowly moving up my arm. Rather then slap at it, I would usually sit up and blow the ant off. He would fly off my arm, onto a rock nearby and continue crawling along, unfazed.
At one point I reached for my water bottle, and there was a large ant crawling up the side. I shook the bottle, but he gripped tight and didn't budge. So I hit the bottle against a rock a couple times to try to shake him off. In my clumsy attempt, I hit his little ant body on the rock. He fell from the bottle, staggered a bit and then stopped moving.
I sat for a moment, feeling oddly remorseful, as I stared at his motionless curled body. I'd never in my life felt so sorry for killing an ant.
I spray at them mercilessly at home, wiping them off my counters, thinking "not in my house."
But this wasn't my house. This was his house. I felt as silly as I did remorseful, as I used a leaf to pick his little body up, and put him into the lake, where he floated away.
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