A Chronicle of Limits, Part 11

Chapter 7:

FAREWELL TO YOSEMITE

24 June: Sunday—Falls Creek

20:57

Today, I pressed on past Wilma Lake in hopes of avoiding its plague of mosquitoes. I found a lovely breezy spot here on the rocky terrain adjacent to Falls Creek. Unfortunately, the wind stopped halfway through supper—despite my pleas. Therefore, this has become the worst spot that I have camped at so far with regards to mosquito activity. Bastards. Hordes. They infest everything. Though my face was the only flesh exposed—and reinforced by some mosquito repellent—the mosquitoes swarmed ferociously. I am surprised that I did not accidentally eat more of them than I did. They would just follow me around like a herd of demonic sheep. In the end, I decided to dash for my tent, crouch in the vestibule, close it swiftly, and practically dive into the main body. Surprisingly, only one mosquito made it into the tent. Naturally, it did not live long. I am thankful for my shelter, and the sluggishness of these Yosemite mosquitoes. But they are still bastards.

I have not yet been able to have consistent enough cell phone coverage to call family about my desire to leave the trail at Sonora Pass. Maybe tomorrow at Dorothy Pass—my gateway out of Yosemite National Park—will be different. If not, hopefully Sonora Pass. Either way, I may try to hitchhike west to get closer to San Jose—or to cell phone coverage, if need be. It has been a troublesome business. I should have sent a message with the ranger, Lisa, before leaving Benson Pass. According to my trail map, there is supposed to be a ranger station west of Wilma Lake, but I could not find it. My effort to scale a high rocky pinnacle at Macomb Pass also proved unproductive. Alas, the adventure continues. I am so tired. . . .

“Uphold my steps in Your paths, that my footsteps may not slip.” Psalm 17:5

“You have tested my heart; You have visited me in the night; You have tried me and found [loneliness, rage, brokenness, frustration . . . weakness]” (Psalm 17:3). What am I to do with these? I am still alone. I still have anger inside me, bent toward my weaknesses—myself. I am still a broken being. . . . Yet Jesus mends. There is hope in that. But how am I to proceed with these thorns digging into my resolve? Where do I belong? I am no hardcore backpacker—at least not solo. I am no PCT thru-hiker. I am a writer, a musician, a runner. I do love nature, but apparently it is too vast for me alone. I have realized that I am most excited about sharing it, even if only through photography. Yet what do I receive from being in nature, aside from learning to endure and adapt to its challenges? Granted, those are worthy gains. Perhaps they are enough. . . . No, there is more. There is life. There can be peace. Perspective: of God, of my smallness—of how little I control. There are limits. There is life. There is rest. Praise God. Amen.

25 June: Monday—Kennedy Canyon Creek

19:43

“I will love you, O Lord, my strength.” Psalm 18: 1-6, 30-31, 36

I pressed on 21 miles today to camp amidst a sizeable contingent of PCT thru-hikers. Most of them are familiar with each other—a curious and delightful band consisting of Last Minute, Stride, Pace, John T., Tortuga, Runaway Bride, Greg, and Albert, to name a few. I am thankful to spend my last night on the trail with such people. They are my greatest regret in not thru-hiking, in not having that sense of belonging. But I do not belong, not permanently at least. I glimpse one world to tell of it to others. I am a messenger, a chronicler.

We are all setting out for Sonora Pass tomorrow. I have still been unable to contact Mama & Papa. Many of my neighbors are hitchhiking east to Bridgeport to re-supply or for other endeavors. Sonora is further by comparison. Likely, being the only one going in that direction, I will have success with regards to hitching a ride.

Until then, it is colder here than anywhere else that I have been these last eleven days—and very windy. The 10,000ft+ ridgeline trail tomorrow is said to be worse: 60 mph winds—nothing unusual, considering my experiences with Colorado. I intend to wake up at 5:00 for a good start. Some of the thru-hikers may actually begin at 4:45. Either way, it will certainly be cold. Meanwhile, Yosemite is behind us. We are in Hoover Wilderness, which looks quite different: more arid and volcanic. It is fascinating how abruptly the terrain can change. Life can be like that.

* * *

22:23

My heart often races as I lie awake at night in the wilderness. Is it from fear? Perhaps. More likely it is an acute awareness of life, of a large world—a significant presence. It is God. It is His handiwork.

“The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament shows His handiwork. Day unto day utters speech, and night unto night reveals knowledge.” Psalm 19:1-2

What truth do you speak, mighty winds of Kennedy Canyon? There is so much power beyond me. What am I to do under and within its swooping voice, its gushing breath? I am so small. I am a guest here. Speak to me, YHWH. I wish to listen. Show me your ways. Soften my heart. Lead me to where I belong.

“Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in Your sight, O Lord, my strength and my Redeemer.” Psalm 19:4

Read the Last Part.

A Chronicle of Limits, Part 10

Chapter 6:

FALLEN TREES

21 June: Thursday—Tuolumne Meadows Campground

21:30

“Dude, is that a box of Charles Shaw?”

No, I do not fuel my backpacking endeavors with wine. I just used the box for my re-supply. But how funny would it be if a PCT hiker did re-supply with some fine wine?

The beauty today was immense. The feet, however, namely my heels, are bloodied raw. I am concerned about them. The rock and sand trails as well as the stark descents and ascents have been hard on them. I pray that my feet do not worsen.

Otherwise, I have rejoined the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). It is strange. I felt at home at first. But then there was the utter exhaustion of the last few miles—as if the spirit of the PCT does not approve of my passing. Furthermore, it took me a while to figure out Tuolumne Meadows Campground’s backpacker rules. But soaking my feet in the Tuolumne River was therapeutic. I wish that I could say the same for dinner: freeze-dried “Mountain Bean Stew”? It was probably too old. Or just horrible to begin with. The taste of the “stew” may haunt me for days.

22 June: Friday—A pond east of Miller Lake

21:30

I cursed a lot today.

The road was long. Many fallen trees blocked the path. I fell three times. I had to navigate stones across three streams. The wind blew. The wind blows. I am exhausted. Furthermore, I left my camera behind twice; fortunately, both times within one hundred meters. My pack is far too heavy. The air is cool. I am thankful for shelter, for warm clothes and a sleeping bag, for warm food inside me. I am thankful for general wholeness. Yet sometimes on days like today I feel utterly broken spiritually. 

 “Lord, who may abide in your tabernacle? Who may dwell in your holy hill?” Psalm 15:1

  

Even my body is frail. Can I make it? Will I fall short once again? The next two days will tell. In the meantime, hallelujah for Jesus. “You are my strength when I am weak.”

 * * *

23:45

“Hello, Mr. Bear. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. But there is no food in here. So you had better be moving along. Goodnight. So long . . .”

23 June: Saturday—Benson Lake

20:22

Today I was just tired. My hope was low. The ascent to Benson Pass (10,140 ft) was laborious. Yet at the top my spirit was renewed. I met a charming Park Service Ranger, Lisa, amidst her 9-day scouting trip of the area. Not long after she and I connected, a lone PCT thru-hiker joined us for a while. Up to that point, I had not interacted with anyone for a whole day. It is telling how much just talking with some friendly strangers encourages me. Yet the curse of parting ways lingers. I passed the PCT hiker further down the west side of the pass, and did not see him again. The long meandering descent to Benson Lake for the remainder of the day wore my knees out.

While the views from Benson Pass were noteworthy, Benson Lake was like stepping into another world. It is known as the Benson Riviera to some. With its long beach of sand, it is a hidden paradise in Yosemite’s Sierra Mountains.

The wind is very strong and chilling, but at least the mosquitoes are kept at bay. There is another enemy, however. Some breed of small black bird shit on me three times and my tent more than once. It seems that I placed my tent under their outhouse tree. Or they are just spiteful. Alas. There always seems to be something that makes the environment even more challenging. 

There is a sense of fear within me in this wilderness. Part of it is being days from any road access to civilization. I have yet to find any cell phone service. Benson Pass taunted me with two bars, but then abruptly took them away. I am not sure how I will update family about my desire (or need) to conclude at Sonora Pass (Highway 108). I must focus on each day at a time. To think beyond is disheartening. I have really only but to go on, to finish this small PCT section of 76.4 miles. I am weak.

 

“Preserve me, O God, for in You I put my trust. . . .  You will show me the path of life; in Your presence is fullness of joy; at Your right hand are pleasures forevermore.” Psalm 16:1, 11

It is somewhat comforting to have other campers nearby. None of them are PCT hikers, but are instead amidst a Twin Lakes circuit. One reminds me of Dave Duguid. Thinking of Dave, he has a far grander adventure than mine approaching. May he and Cara’s marriage be blessed. Amen.

Read the Next Part.