Devil’s Postpile – Deer Creek
No bears! And a lovely trail brekkie of apple pie oatmeal with freeze dried berries and Kate’s good company. Once again we were back on the trail at 08 (for my non-hiking readers: this is absurdly late). It takes time to get into a good morning routine, especially if you are two people with two sets of gear to pack up. And the constant dilemma: who carries the soggy tent today? However, the forest was beautiful in the morning sunlight. We all screamed wading through an icy river that reached all the way up to my thighs.
Putting on wet Injinji toe socks takes two ages, but trail life is all about those small practical duties. Your life is suddenly so simple, it follows the same rhythm every day, and tiny tweaks can make or break your mood. Hence, your spirits soar equally at little victories – a pretty camp, the energy bar you’ve been saving for hours, fresh socks, the wind in your hair.
We parted ways with Kate before Red’s Meadow junction. I would have hiked with her all the way to Mt Whitney, but we had different itineraries. Now only two sets of boots kicked up dust on the soft trail. Smoke from the wildfire descended upon us as we traversed a burnt area, and we nearly choked inching our way out of Red’s Valley up into clearer air. At this point, I confess I felt a little discouraged. The smoke obscured all view, we had hiked in dark pine forest all day, and I longed for mountains. Preferably flat, with winds to carry my pack for me.
Smoke from a nearby wildfire obscured the view of Ansel Adams Wilderness
But then the trail flattened out, becoming a white sandy track alongside brooks framed by wildflowers. The M&Ms in today’s ration also brightened the mood considerably! Upper Crater meadow was one of the most beautiful sights I’ve seen, blanketed in wildflowers, clover and lupins – enough to bring out the Anne of Green Gables in anybody! We decided to end the day early at Deer Creek, pitching our tent in a cosy spot amidst the trees. Early afternoons on trail involve cuddling, reading (I started The Grass is Singing by Doris Lessing) and trying to wash hair and body in the river (hah, as if it helps).
Deer Creek was the worst mosquito den of all, we had to gobble down our chicken teriyaki dinner under head nets, walking surely another mile back and forth trying to escape the bloodsuckers. Adrian nearly went around the bend, trying to cut trespassing mozzies in half with our pocket knife inside the tent… The moon ascended high through the dark trees, and we snuggled close in our little safe haven.
Still brushed my hair at his point. Doomed to fail.