The High Sierra
[ Day 5, Part 1 – June 17, 2012 ]
I slept until almost nine, which for those unfamiliar with backcountry days and ways is far beyond normal waking hours. When I finally crawled out of my tent, the campground was almost deserted and the sun peered down from its mid-morning perch. Mindful of both the impending afternoon heat as well as my sore derrière, I broke down camp with a mix of hurry and procrastination. My AM routine began with great efficiency, slowing with each completed task until a sluggish finale in which I applied chamois cream and donned still-damp, semi-clean cycling apparel. This would become a hallmark of my mornings on the road, a bizarrely reluctant metamorphosis from camper to cyclist.
Midway through the morning tasks, I spotted two previously unseen cyclists heading out of camp. In everyday speech I use the term ‘cyclist’ to describe pretty much any stranger on a bike, yet the term didn’t seem to hold for these two. I’d more accurately describe them as people with bicycles. They were the first cycle tourists (again, a stretch) that I’d seen on my trip, so I was naturally inclined to strike up conversation. The couple, both of whom appeared to be in their twenties, could have easily fit in with the down and out of San Francisco’s Haight Street. The couple started out in Sacramento, the woman with an old mountain bike (complete with knobby tires) and the guy with a single-speed beach cruiser. They hoped to reach Florida by fall.
I took a quick visual inventory of their supplies and equipment: no panniers, no handlebar bags, no helmets, and what appeared to be no more than three liters of water capacity between them. What they did have sat in milk crates lashed to each bicycle’s rear rack, with odd-sized items themselves lashed to the outside of each crate. The woman had no shoes; she was literally cycling barefoot, and had been doing so since her footwear, external frame backpack, and wallet were stolen at Crane Flat, some forty miles back. For the purposes of safe bicycle travel, the loss of the backpack was almost certainly a blessing in disguise. The loss of wallet and shoes would have spelled GAME OVER to most, yet these two were undeterred. I silently marveled that they had even made it this far.
Their nonchalance in the face of absurd circumstances was both awe-inspiring and stupefyingly Californian. I considered giving the woman money to buy new shoes, but holistic appraisal suggested that her shoe shortage was, like, the tip of a huge iceberg. Anything that pushed these two further into the middle of nowhere, ill equipped as they were, would likely propel them into ever dire straits. True goodwill would have pointed them home. I took the easy route and wished them well, resuming my final procrastinations as they rolled their bikes out of camp. Despite their considerable lead time, I passed them on a relatively modest climb no more than three miles up the road. By that point they were already walking their bikes, thumbs out in hope that a kind stranger would carry them over the pass.
Not long after, at about 9,900 feet above sea level, I carried myself over Tioga Pass, leaving Yosemite’s high country as quickly as I had arrived. The descent through Lee Vining Canyon was substantial, the pace of travel marked by stark changes in both scenery and temperature.
In descents, gravity does almost all the work, but in the long run each descent is paid with ascent, which itself is paid with time, sweat, and the intangibles of effort. Compelled both by gravity and my obsessive love of efficiency, I used every bit of momentum I could get, skipping photo opportunities and hitting the brakes only when absolutely necessary. I was rushing and I knew it, but I justified these hasty moments as a sort of geographic speed dating, a series of quick stops and how do you do’s, all processed through the lens of future possibility. The subalpine meadows of Yosemite’s high country undoubtedly warrant a second date, and in the words of John Muir, I gladly, gratefully, hopefully pray that I may see them again.