The Paiute Trail Project, Day 1: Bodies are Always Dying

Day 1: Friday, July 20^th, 2018

Silver Lake Campground to Thousand Island Lakes, 9.7 miles, approx. 2600 feet elevation gain

Lesson: Bodies are Always Dying

I had planned day 1  — 10 miles — so that it would ease us onto the trail. It turned out to be the day in which we came the closest to dangerous exposure and which was capped off by a midnight poop session in the muck not far away enough from our tent under unbelievable stars.

The climb from Silver Lake to Agnew Lake kicked my ass, which didn’t surprise me. I was soft and we were getting to elevation, crossing the threshold into the thin atmosphere of 8000+ feet. I started sucking air as I heaved myself up large rocks that formed steps in the trail. Even my water bladder gave tiny squeaks of protest each time I launched myself up another boulder. The ass-kicking the trail was giving me didn’t dampen my complacency when we passed a family of five on a promontory. The young couple had one in a kister carrier and two others who were ambulatory but not out of diapers. The Husband and I smiled indulgently. “We remember those days,” we said. They sighed. “We remember those days.” Inside I cheered: we’d done it! Twelve years before it had seemed like we’d never do a real hike again, and here we were on the motherfucking Paiute Road! With our two pre-teen sons! Wearing their own packs and carrying their own gear!

On the push from Agnew Lake (mosquito hole) to Gem Lake, my shoulders started to hurt, like the pack was a vise. I complained. I sniped at The Husband. I was not happy in my body. I ate my entire Jolly Rancher allotment for the day and marveled at my tongue, a hungry muscle capable of taste. At Gem, we took our midmorning break, snacking on apples, our last (only) fresh fruit. The manzanita and limber pine sighed; the lake’s surface was thick with pale green pollen. The sky was clear in the south while grey clouds piled in the north. I felt sure they would clear soon.

After a lunch of Ritz crackers and cheese on the western shore of the same lake a few hours later, we undertook the day’s third big climb, up what I called Sucky Slope.

I’ve hiked up a lot of Sucky Slopes. They’re north-facing and heavily wooded. They go on and on, with plenty of switchbacks, but no peaks or vistas. It’s usually cloudy when you go up Sucky Slopes. It was Son the Elder’s turn to be not happy in his body. I countered the barrage of complaints with reminders that this was his first time in a hip-strap pack. This didn’t cheer him up. In a clearing, we had to stop because he was crying and moaning. I broke out the Nutter Butters. Having narrowly skirted one crisis, the Husband and I exchanged apprehensive glances when we felt a few drops of rain. We did the only thing we could do: we hiked on.

I can barely remember Clark Lake, because that’s when it really started to rain. Lulled by years of Southern California drought, we were sure it would dissipate, but instead it got worse. We stopped and pulled out all our raingear, struggling to wrap brand new packcovers over jutting pads and around our hip straps. We huddled under a tree when it rained harder. We hiked, we huddled. Lightning flashed just as we broke out of the tree cover.

sheltering from the rain

By the time we reached Thousand Island Lake, we were soaked and cold. I slopped along the drowned shoreline path. Since camping was prohibited near the inlet, we slogged along a spur trail on the north shore until we came upon a large rocky shelf packed with tents. We scrabbled up the promontory until we found an unclaimed wedge of territory. The Husband took out tarp and we sheltered under it, eating peanut butter straight from the jar just to stoke fire in our blood. In a lull, we pitched the tent. Inside we stripped off everything wet and put on whatever we had that was dry – not much. Jammed wetly in our sleeping bags, we ate a precious and unscheduled bar of chocolate.

The rain stopped shortly before sunset. We must have eaten something but I can’t remember it. It was fully dark by the time we were washing up and taking poops outside in deep cat holes dug in the pine duff with flat rocks. Exhausted, cold, we slept.

Until halfway through the night, when Son the Elder had an emergency poop situation, brought on by altitude and exertion. I accompanied him outside, dug a hole for him, and watched for mountain lions while he tended to his business. The stars, as mentioned, were jaw-droppingly gorgeous. I’ve heard the phrase “a cloud of witnesses” used in religious contexts, and that’s about what it looked like – so many points of light, it was almost a sound. Painstakingly, Son the Elder cleaned up (obsessive about personal hygiene, the trip would pose constant challenges to him, but this was easily the worst night).

Day 1 gave us a taste of death, which is what discomfort – pain, hunger, cold – holds. Daily life generally lets us cringe away from this sensation, but lived through and embraced it opens into something else. Call it awareness. The nerves zing. The tongue throbs with flavors. Blue with cold, gratitude burns through our sinuses when we slip into a sleeping bag. Forced out of the tent back into the cold to stand with our sick baby boy, we see stars – honest to Christ, the only night I really took in the stars for the whole trip, thanks to mosquitos and rain.

Leaning ever-so-slightly into death’s gleaming blade – always at our throat, whether we feel it or not – lets us whisper just for a breath to the sparkling cold nothing all around us: bring it, motherfuckers. Bring it.