Down at Nevada Beach on Lake Tahoe I stood in the early
morning sunlight and watched a young boy swim out in the cool, clear water, to
where his family’s jet ski was moored. He climbed on board and started it up
and came slowly putt-putting into shore, where his father filled the gas tank
from a plastic can. A motorboat towing a water skier passed a hundred yards
out, running parallel to the beach; every few minutes another zipped by, and
eventually the wakes of these boats came onto the brown pebbly verge at my
feet. Far out on the big lake a colorful hot air balloon drifted low over the
water. Nearby a fence cut off access to the southward stretch of the beach, to
keep the public off the private waterfronts of mansion owners. I stood for a long time, watching, and
considering the various ways of having fun, and how they were substantially
different down here in what seemed like “the world” compared to the trail crest
up among the mountains. A number of such
mountains ringed the lake, and I tried to pick out where I had camped two
nights previous….
At ten I checked out of my 12th floor room, using
the television remote. Across the street I got on the airport shuttle bus and
rode an hour and a half to Reno. At the
airport I bought a ten dollar pre-made sandwich and thought about how I
could’ve made more efficient leftover use of last night’s buffet offerings.
Yes, the muffin and orange had helped cover breakfast, but I had neglected
lunch.
The Eastern Sierra Transport bus could hold twenty but only
five of us got on at the Reno airport. Two young guys from New Jersey started a
conversation with a young guy from Pennsylvania. None of them had ever been
west before, and all three were heading for Yosemite to hike the John Muir
Trail. They talked logistics and equipment, and I was a tempted to jump in and
offer my experience. But I didn’t. I
decided they didn’t need my information or foreshadowing; they seemed sufficiently
prepared, and whatever was ahead they could come to on their own. One of the
New Jersey guys took a number of photographs out the window, of the mountains
to our right. I thought, later those pictures are going to seem worthless,
after you’ve gotten up close.
When I got off the bus in Bishop, it was 6:30 in the evening
and the temperature was ninety-six. I went into a K-Mart and bought a marker to
make a sign for hitchhiking. Then I walked a mile to the center of town, where
I stopped into Las Palmas Restaurant and got a bean and cheese burrito to go.
At a quarter after seven I started up Line Street towards Starlite and Tom and
Heleen’s house, the last segment of my day-long trip.
I’d tried calling them both but had gotten no answer. I knew
that they had been on a backpacking trip of their own, starting the 19th.
I thought they might be back, but apparently not. So I would have to hitchhike
up to their house. Once I reached the van, I would be home and reliant no more
on buses or my feet or random drivers….
The problem was that the light was going fast. I couldn’t
take a chance on standing still and hitching, so I started walking, my back to
the traffic, my left hand out holding a small sign that read “Starlite.” Many
cars passed, but no one slowed…. It certainly is best to face potential rides, rather than placing one’s anonymous (and in
this case backpacked) back to drivers. But if it fell out that I had to walk
all the way, then I needed to use what light was left…. I thought it was maybe
six miles, which would stretch the limits of the remaining day.
Turns out it was nine miles, and there was no shoulder, and
I would’ve done most of the walk in the dark…. But after two miles, while I was
stopped to write a second sign—“or any bit”—a man in a pick-up going the other way stopped and asked where I was
going. When I told him he said, “I can do that,” and he turned around and I got
in.
He was a meaty, red-faced man in a ball cap, in his forties
and, I figured out after a few minutes, a little drunk. He introduced himself
as Mike and we shook hands. I told him about the hike, and my day of travel,
and he said he’d like to do more hiking, as people who don’t hike often do…. He
had moved to Bishop six years before, from Bullhead City. “I’m raising my
fifteen-year-old son,” he said. “He’s bipolar, and down there, that wasn’t a
good place for him.” Bishop, though, was, he said. Mike repaired spas and pools
in the summer, did more general construction work in the winters. “I used to
build custom homes, down in Arizona. I can do just about any of that sort of
thing.” His son was off on a vacation with his parents. “He’s coming home
tomorrow. So tonight I thought I’d go have a few beers after work, play a
little darts. You know.” He told me
three times on the drive: “Have a few beers, play some darts, you know.”
Up at the house in Starlite, Tom was in the driveway. They
had just gotten home from their trip (and had tried calling me, but my phone
didn’t work once I left the town center). Mike got out of the pick-up and
introduced himself to Tom and they shook hands. He told Tom that he worked on spas.
I shook hands with him again before he left, and thanked him for his help. I’d
thought I had a long dark walk ahead of me, and then suddenly I didn’t.
Tom and Heleen and I talked and talked, telling about our
trips. They had gone up into the nearby mountains, staying mostly above 10,000’,
with their friends Stacy and Jen, and those two soon appeared with pizza and salad.
Stacy made me a bowl of salad, and I ate my burrito while they ate the pizza.
Periodically one of them would point at one of the two sleeping dogs and laugh
and say something about how they were played out after running around the high
country for five days.
I was pretty tired myself, though much of my day’s movement
had been undertaken sitting in a bus seat…. I’d thought to maybe spend the
night in the van, but Heleen and Tom assumed I would take the guest room again,
so I did.
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