So, where was I?
On day five we decided
to hang around San Francisco and do a little shopping and a lot of
reminiscing. We cleaned out the vast
majority of Chinatown’s various wares,
stopped by my aunt’s old apartment,
ate way the hell too much at Gordo’s by UCSF,
and visited the sea lions at Pier 39
where we also spotted Alcatraz.
None of this stuff is in anyway worth talking
about plus I’m seriously behind, so we’ll just move along.
On day six we decided
it had been WAY too long since we did something stupid and reckless so we
headed toward Calaveras to see some big trees and, with any luck, to die
needlessly and get eaten by a bear.
When we got to Calaveras, we were first intrigued to discover that it
was a stimulating thirty degrees colder there than in Sonoma, where we were
staying.
And also, covered in
three feet of snow…go figure. (How, you
may ask, do I know how deep the snow was?
We’ll get to that later.)
Which is exactly why
there seemed nothing more reasonable in the world to do than to go for a mile
and a half hike…in our tennis shoes.
(And, in my case, plaid cotton pajama pants…Oh yeah, I’m stylish.) We parked the car and set about bundling
ourselves up in jackets and scarves and the like as a beige Lexus pulled up and
out popped two 20ish city slicker types – a guy and girl. She was completely decked out in brightly
colored lycra and faux fur finished off with ugg boots and a large satchel
adorned with several hundred pounds of oversized hardware. As she swung her bag over her shoulder and
fluffed her already over-fluffed hair, he took in the scene with a sweep of his
disinterested head and announced that “These better be some big fucking
trees.” And off they went.
A few minutes later,
while I continued to debate the benefits of multiple scarves versus the ability
to turn my head, our intrepid duo reentered the parking lot, stomping and gesticulating
wildly. He barked something about “not
signing up for this shit” and without another word they got into their car and
left. The Husband and I stood alone in
the parking lot and gaped at each other, dumbstruck, before I spoke what I knew
we were both thinking
“Amateurs!” I exclaimed, attempting to tuck my pajama
pants into my socks. “That was so
funny! Did you see her outfit? Where does she think she is!?! You ready to go?”
The trail map was
numbered one through twenty-five, with each number representing a point of
interest and indicated on the trail by a wooden marker. Of course, that was all moot as, at that
moment we weren’t exactly able to locate the trail seeing as it was entirely
covered with snow. What we did find
after a short interlude of wandering aimlessly was a dirty track that proved to
be trail enough for us.
Thus we journeyed on, stopping occasionally to
take in the beauty of the woods and fail to capture its essence in
pictures.
And then we came across this:
This is a bench.
One of many provided along the route for visitors to stop and have a
rest and the first indication that something may have been terribly wrong.
Sobered by the
realization that we were not actually walking on the ground, I turned to The
Husband and said, “That’s a bench…I guess that’s not going to do us any
good! I’ll take a picture.” And we laughed. And the walking continued.
At one point, The
Husband found a large tree with a hollow at the base where the snow had piled
against it and, being a reasonable person, he did the only reasonable thing to
do in such a situation. He climbed in
the hole and I took a picture.
“I hope there aren’t any bears in here!” He shouted as he backed in, feet first.
“Probably not.”
I responded. “Smile! I’m taking
a picture.”
“Hey, my clothes are all wet now.”
The Husband extricated
himself from his den and the hiking continued.
The ground was slippery where the snow had been packed down by previous
hikers and it was becoming increasingly necessary to keep an eye on the
path. On either side of the dirty trail
the snow was pocked with ruts and ravines that were getting to be difficult to
avoid.
I carefully placed one foot directly in front of
the other and observed. “I think the
path is getting narrower.”
He considered this for a moment before
venturing. “I guess fewer people made
it this far.”
“Oh!
We’re doing really well then!”
And the sightseeing continued.
Until…
There was a
bridge. One of several, as it would
turn out, that lead over a winding creek that, itself, was oft shrouded beneath
the drifts.
Each was nearly topped off with snow that reduced
the guardrail to nothing more than a path marker. Starting to get concerned we pulled out the trail map to
determine where we were and got our first dose of harsh reality. We were approaching the halfway mark. At this, a great debate ensued in which
phrases like “short cut” and “Donner party”, and “the hibernation habits of
large ravenous carnivores” were discussed with keen interest by both parties. However, having still not managed to get a
tight hold on the concept of self-preservation, we continued on. Surely, the longer way with the narrower and
less densely packed path was the way to go. And besides, “It’s snowing! How cool is that!?!”
There were no more
pictures after that. It didn’t take
long before we realized that this was officially no-man’s-land and that the
only people who had continued on the trail at this point had been wearing
snowshoes that all but obliterated the useful trail. The only thing left to do was to walk the narrow stalk of snow
that remained between the deep indentations that remained. Essentially, an impossible feat.
First one person slipped, then the other. Every time a foot left the tiny slither of dense snow, you’d find yourself buried up to the knee in the loose powder that flanked the trail. After an intense struggle to right yourself without sinking further, you were forced to hurry along the path to avoid giving the snow beneath your feet the opportunity to weaken and fail you again. It only took a couple of falls for shoes to fill with slush and feet to begin to freeze which turned out to be both a help and a hindrance as it did dull the aching arch pain although the numbness also made it harder to get a footing.
Two
and a half hours after we began, soaked from both the snowfall and falling in
the snow, exhausted from the exertion of maintaining uprightness, and steadily
succumbing to gangrene, we arrived back at the parking lot.
Safely
at the car and rapidly warming up, I hopped back out to snap a picture or two
of the flurry that had punctuated the last leg of our hike and really helped
conjure the desperate atmosphere of the deservedly damned.
As I sat back down and shut the door behind me, I
turned to The Husband and sighed, “Well, we made it.”
“Yeah.”
He looked over the dash, past the snowy embankment and into the woods
beyond. “That was fun!”
Great story! I'm not so sure I would have hiked in tennis shoes in the snow...in pajama pants, silly girl! Again, love the photo ops...beautiful!
Posted by: Kim | April 28, 2008 at 11:58 AM
I really would have loved it if you photographed the girl. I would have laughed!!
Posted by: Becky | April 29, 2008 at 09:26 AM
Kim: It wasn't my finest hour, no. =)
Becky: I felt the exact same way when I was writing the post.If only...
Posted by: Monkee | April 30, 2008 at 02:55 PM