Monkee: Day Five and Six: We Cannot Be Taught!

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.