Final Entries

Dear Reader,

We are setting out now from Red's Meadow Resort on the last 160-mile leg of our journey. We may not be passing another phone before we finish this thing off, but the final entries will follow soon thereafter, if that turns out to be the case. Thanks to everyone for reading.

- Wolf

P.S. Also, if anyone has e-mailed me or would like to e-mail me use the following address from here on out:

retsofymerej@gmail.com

My PocketMail account expires soon and I don't know what will happen to messages sent to the pocketmail.com address once that happens. Thanks.

Sept 22: Devil's Postpile, check

So we stuck around Red's Meadow and snacked and showered and relaxed in the sun for most of the day. And, yes, we did make it down to the Devil's Postpile to see the strange granitic columns. It was pretty neat, but it wouldn't have been a disaster to have missed it.

It's been a nice day off our feet, although again, Eliza is feeling under the weather . . .

We're shoving off soon, back out to our woods home and the little yellow submarine.

Sept 22: Devil's Postpile, almost

We awoke eager to cover the short distance between us and Red's Meadow -- a mountain resort just down the way from Devil's Postpile National Monument.

We descended briskly. I feel good today, alive, awake. We chatted after a while after a good four miles or so of solo humming, the getting the bearings of the day we each go through while tromping down the trail.

We somehow passed right through the National Monument area without ever seeing the Devil's Postpile, which seems a shame. We figured we'd walk right by and get a good look, but it turns out we had to take a detour and after missing it, decided to forge ahead to the cafe at Red's Meadow instead of backtracking on these dusty horsetrails.

So, we're here at Red's now, feeling fine. Coffee's good. The sun is spackling the dusty yard through the big tall pines.

We're both feeling physically better now as well. The stomach bug has hopefully passed on through.

We'll be here for a while, snacking and lounging before setting out again this afternoon.

Sept 21: Autumn showers

It rained on us in our tent last night. We had stopped in darkness and made a good camp at around 8:30 and I believe that the rain started falling at 10:00 or thereabouts. It came down hard for quite a while, off and on until at least 2 am. The tent leaked, but only minimally. I felt low and depressed as I lay there uncomfortable and damp in my deflating sleeping bag. The stop at Tuolumne had been very successful (we were able to resupply amply and eat our bellies full) but I left feeling a bit rushed. Mainly, I had wanted to do a little more PocketMailing/journaling but I only had a very brief access window to use the store's telephone.

Today, the skies are cleared and the sun is shining -- singing, even -- the mountains of the high Sierra are all around us towering and windswept. There is a dusting of snow on the highest, bare cliffsides, left from last night's passing storm, I'd imagine. It is truly incredible out here, more stunning and enormous than expected. The trekking is strenuous, but it is easy to forget the body and its woes in the presence of such magnificence.

We hiked down along the Lyell Canyon's meadowy floor and started in on our first big pass (Donohue Pass) ascent early. Lyell Mountain is the highest peak in Yosemite National Park at just over 13000 ft and we climbed up along it's wet, glaciated, jagged face to pass at by its long, luminescent glaciers at 11,056 ft. Looking back at the canyon floor to the meandering snake creek and the brown narrow meadows, the distance and our height is grand. On either side of the valley, forested walls rise steeply, up and up, and on top of these walls rest another world -- mountains, huge and looming, three-dimensional now and licking at the fast changing cloud forms. Shadows pass over the canvass of rocky grey and blue up on top of California. Water spills from the last glacial remains of the summer. The peaks are endless and infinite.

At the pass we meet two backpackers resting. They are loving the view, panting and chatting next to their tossed aside packs. We pass on and head into the Ansel Adams Wilderness. To our left stands Donohue Peak; before us, as we descend, a vast shimmering wet world of boulders and stone, tiny drying, draining lakes, more unidentifiable peaks. We descend into a wonderful alpine park, reminding me of Jefferson Park and Paradise Park in the Oregon Cascades with its meandering and crashing creeklets, swimming with little fish, drying out autumn wildflowers, red grasses, and stone lined pathway. Deer bound away from us in packs, but seemingly not out of fear -- they just want their space, just as we want ours.

We lunch on a big warm stone under the sun, laying out the tent and our bags to dry. We dig into our instant hummus and polish the meal off with big thick mint Oreos. What a life it can be on top of a mountain with sweets and sun aplenty.

The day is a grand one. We are reinvigorated, freshly inspired, excited for the rest which is yet to come. It is interesting how frustations will come to a head and despair will linger close at hand, when suddenly, out of nowehere (or out of ourselves, our minds, our hearts, even?) the light will change and the new day will be just that: new. Even the rain tht fell last night has seemed to freshen things up. Maybe it is just a (thankfully benign) reminder to take stock and be happy with what we've got.

Afternoon sun over Banner and Ritter Peaks, white spackling frenzy on Thousand Island Lake surface. We push on and make it a long day, making camp on ridge overlooking San Joaquin River canyon and Agnew Meadows.

Us sitting across from one another, crosslegged on folded foam pads, sucking up noodles as Venus shines first light of a wider universe briefly before disappearing (due to our planetary pirouetting, of course) behind opposite ridge silhouette.

Rubs in the tent on sore legs and starting an outloud reading of Steinbecks's "Travels with Charley."

Sept 20: Tuolumne Meadows, rain

We walked this morning fast and fleet towards Tuolumne Meadows, food and fuel our motivation, it had to be a good day . . .

Right off we were blessed by another backpacker who we passed as we left our shoreside camp on Miller Lake. A wizened yet sturdy, and grey man, he approached us waving a half-pound bag of beef jerky. "I wonder if you all might want just a little extra weight for the day!" he called. Of course we would, was our response, eager always for something extra and unexpected to munch on. We stopped and chatted about our trip, the water ahead, trail conditions, etc. We all commented on the surprisingly ominous looking grey, cloudy skies overhead. And soon enough we were off and bouncing down the trail.

The stretch between Miller Lake and Tuolumne turned out to be a great relief. We had a long relaxing descent over gently descending pine-forested grounds, a nice mile and a half stroll over a dry meadow, more slight drop-offs and only a bit of switchback climbing.

The grey skies lingered throughout the day, creating a dreary backdrop to the stark mountain peaks starting to appear to the south and east before us. As we trucked along the Tuolumne River on our final five-mile stretch, pellets of icy sleet even began to fall, but only for a brief time.

All day long we had pleasant interactions with people we met on the trail. We passed a group of young school kids and their camp counselors who were amazed at how long we had been out hiking -- two of them said it was their dream to do this someday. A park ranger on horseback as equally impressed and supportive. We discovered as we continued to make our way further into the busy park civilization that he had spread word of our thusfar accomplishment to everyone he met along his own trip back to the meadows ranger station. Another couple was simply dumbfounded that anyone could do such a thing as walk for five months on end all the way from Mexico to Canada. Eliza has really perfected exactly how to tell people about our trip -- how to be succinct and avoid confusion by avoiding any lengthy description of our "flip-flop." I felt it really encouraging actually to be getting such a supportive response today. I suppose it helps when the overall motivation seems to be dwindling a bit.

At 3:30 or so we arrived at Tuolumne Meadows. We checked out the supplies at the store, which were ample and on sale due to the fast appoaching end of season (the whole thing shuts down next Sunday), and cleaned up a bit and went into the counter service cafe and ordered ourselves some burgers and fries. As we stood eating at the window, the clouds finally let loose and gave the bustling parking lot and the expansive sunburnt meadow beyond a good heavy shower.

After a satisfying late lunch, we went back into the store and did our shopping for the next week. This little place was awesome. They had a great selection of items, complete with organic foods, loads of cookies, excellent beers, and very reasonable prices to boot. All in all, I'd say it was one of the most convenient and high quality resupplies of the whole trail.

We spent the rest of the dwindling afternoon of this last full day of our summer out in the brown, now sunny and warm, meadow sorting through and repackaging things, sipping on a couple of Samuel Smith Oatmeal Stouts. It was a beautiful spot we had and we both felt good.

I wasn't able to use the pay phones to send out my journal entries and e-mails for some reason, but at the last minute I asked at the store and they let me use their phone which worked.

Eliza got word that she has the opportunity to take a job back in Oakland this fall with Habitat for Humanity, which is both exciting and daunting as it demands that we both start to make some real decisions about what our plans are following this trip's conclusion in a few weeks. I am really glad for her and it is a god job. Now I just have to wrap my own mind around the possibility of moving out to the Bay Area and finding work there.

We discussed this and other things as we set of again down the trail at dusk, the sun sunk low down into the heavy fast flying clouds in the west, silver lining and flashes of color illuminating the spiry mountain peaks around.

Darkness descended and we pushed on out of the park meadow area with the lights of our headlamps leading the way down the wide trail. Eliza commented appropriately that this trail is our home, and when we pass through towns or through these national parks with their rules and restrictions and car campsites and roads -- it is only then that we actually feel homeless out here.

So we walked our first steps on the John Muir Trail in shrouded darkness of night. Overhead, to the west, great flashes of lightning lit up the heavens without a sound.

Sept 19: Hard travelin'

Difficult hiking continues today. This is surely how the trail will be for the remainder of this hike, all the way down to Whitney.

We slept warmly last night at below 8000 ft, which was a nice change. I awoke at some point feeling very sore and achy, had to unzip and stretch my legs and ankles for a while before falling back to sleep for the rest of the moonlit morning.

The Sierra's terrain is just as the name claims it to be -- serrated, jagged, tooth-like. We climb and then we drop. The trail is boulders and cobbles, slow going, hard work and frustration.

We came up over Seavey Pass early on and faced the great, remote expanse of Benson Canyon. I'm sure that my photos will fall sadly short of capturing the grandeur of this place. Looking out over the expansive basin, I think, "how can we possibly traverse such an impossibly rough set of crags, ravines, towers, cliffs and drop offs?"

We made a slow go of it. Eliza is feeling sick still and we are wondering if it is time to finally use the antibiotics we picked up before setting out five months ago. She has vomitted a few times and we both now have diarrhea. Tomorrow we'll arrive at Tuolumne Meadows and hopefully have a chance to call Varuni and see what she recommends to do about it.

We argued today about food and we both felt desperate and the whole trip seemed pointless, our desire to see this thing through vanished.

We walked on though and felt better soon enough. The days, while shorter than in the heat of the summer, are still long. We are both amazed at how quickly and thoroughly we pass through a cycle of emotions each day.

As we climbed to the highpoint at Benson Pass, again up over 10000 ft, we sang old Dylan tunes breathlessly to one another and had smiles on our weary faces, so glad to be nearing the top of our long climb for the day.

Sept 18: Up and down, this is Yosemite

It was a quiet, introspective, suspended sort of Sunday. The morning skies were hung with whispy white clouds along with the normal jet exhaust streamers. The warming day had a hungover feeling to it, something of a wintry heartache and slow Zen nostalgia, when tears threaten but would never actually fall.

We broke camp late, with the sun and speedily, as is our habit now that the weather has turned. The terrain rolled and jolted us up and over endless rock outcroppings, in formations down the river valley almost like volcanic ash in their random spotty placement.

Before long we climbed up to a beautiful wide open breakfast spot near Dorothy Lake Pass. Eliza named the mountain mound before us "Jet Stream Peak" and I liked that. Here, we also entered into the Yosemite Wilderness, which excited us. What is in a name, afterall?

Eliza is still struggling with this stomach bug so we stop quite a bit now. It is a shame that she has to deal with that during this penultimate stretch here in the high country.

The rest of the morning and into the early afternoon we just plodded along, talking some, singing to each other, trying to recall the lyrics to too many half forgotten tunes. The south leading canyon was bound majestically on both sides by the huge, rugged, white granitic mountain peaks -- the type of thing one might expect to see out here in Yosemite. These are the things that really make you wonder about where this all came from. How incredible it must have been when the mountains rose up and the earth quaked from within so many millions of years ago? What must have the native peoples who ventured out to these remote and extravagent (not to mention inhospitable and often very dangerous) places thought? I wonder the same thing of all of the most breathtaking sights we've seen along this trail this summer -- Crater Lake, Mt. Rainier, the volcanic mud pits of Lassen . . .

Our long slow descent ended as we rounded gorgeous, serene Wilma Lake. Again, the huge granitic walls were just awesome. We recalled at this point the times we had visited National Parks earlier in our lives and how little we could actually remember of those trips. Was that Yosemite or Yellowstone? I remember taking a ten-minute walk but it rained so we left and took pictures from the car. We laughed at the idea that it would be a fitting commercial for Sizzler or some such food chain. The disgruntled kids, the eager father, the scolding mother all out on a vacation taking in the sights that nobody really has any desire to see anyway, and then the one thing they can all agree about . . . Sizzler. Thanks Mom!

Leaving the south shore of the lake our day's walk in the woods changed very abrubtly and very drastically. From here on out it seems that we are either going straight up or straight down. Our data book is in agreement. There will be no more mercy, it seems. The afternoon was grueling. We climbed up and we dropped down. The trail seemed haphazard and all too steep, winding recklessly to and fro, heading directly up gravel covered slopes and sending us skidding down the other side.

We passed two PCT hikers, Wildcat and Nickel, this evening. We have seen their names in registers since leaving Canada and finally got a chance today to stop and meet them. We passed them, it turns out, when choosing not to stop in Etna back in northernmost California. They are both middle-aged and full of good humor. They have slowed way down as Wildcat has some stomach bug and doesn't have the energy to fly through this tough terrain.

We bid them safe journey, forded the creek next to their camp, and hiked on another few miles -- up and over the next steep ridgeline and down to the next creek canyon.

We camped at Kerrick Canyon alongside another chatterbox creek.

Sept 17: Opening day

I awoke this morning to the sound of gunshots cracking the distant silence. Crack, thud, thud. The cold mountain wind coursing around the tent had kept me in a state of fitful half sleep for hours through the morning's predawn darkness. At some point, the sun still below the jagged eastern horizon, a group of chattering voices (speaking Spanish?) even floated in on the breeze. I tossed and turned. The cold earth had found its icy fingers a way in through the foot box of my sleeping bag. It was a surreal and sleepless morning, a struggle for shuteye and shelter from the stormy, blustery air outside. Finally, we rousted ourselves as the sun peeked over the crag to the east, out to face the bluing heavens and the dawning day. We broke camp quickly, racing against the chill, and made for the orange, sunlit cliff face where our trail was already busy warming itself.

Our plan was to hit Route 108 at Sonora Pass by mid-morning and hitch down to Kennedy Meadows (the northern of the two which our trail passes near) for a good breakfast and to re-supply at the store. On the way down to the pass, we noticed a strange orange spackling spread out over the rocky, red landscape. The cold morning air made me think of winter. I felt oddly nostalgic for the hills of upstate New York and the comforts of home. Rounding a bend by a set of volcanic pinnacles we saw more of these construction cone orange blots dappling the distant scene. What were these bright, bold figures? Are they people? We wondered aloud. And then we had our answer. Crack, thud, thud. Gunshots from up ahead. Dogs barking. The hairs standing up on the back of my neck. A primeval fear churning deep within my belly. Them's guns. And this must be hunting season, I thought.

And so it is. Today is opening day and the blood-hungry hunters are out in full force, toting rifles, clad in blaze orange. I didn't expect that it would be legal to hunt in Wilderness Areas, but from the looks of the crowd heading up into our Wilderness area today, it apparently is. Yippee. Where's my orange vest? Looking down at my drab hiking gear, I am not entirely sure that I won't be mistaken for an innocent, forraging deer one of these days. I guess we'll just hope that where we're headed will be too remote for most hard working hunters with day jobs to venture out for the kill.

Coming to the trail head at Sonora Pass we were delighted to meet up with Duck and Swift, two hikers that we last saw in Griffith Park in L.A. on June 6th or thereabouts. They had dropped us off after leaving the Saufley's together and had returned to the trail before we had. Then they flipped up to Sierra City from Kennedy Meadows, went north to Canada (we missed them in Oregon) and then finally returned to Sierra City just a couple of weeks ago to hit the Sierras southbound like many of the rest of us. Unfortunately, it turns out that this was their last stop. They had gone into Kennedy Meadows yesterday, had lunch, picked up their re-supply package, come back to sleep at windy, cold Sonora Pass and decided this morning that they had had enough. Their plan was to hitch west to Sonora and then make it up to the Bay Area where Duck's family lives. We were sorry to have to see them go. They were very kind, however, and offered us their re-supply as they would no longer have much use or desire for camp foods and candy bars once back in civilization for good. So we graciously accepted and decided to roll right on by Sonora Pass, no longer in need of a store to get us supplied through to Tuolumne Meadows -- 75 miles down the trail, and our junction with the John Muir Trail.

The hiking south of Sonora Pass has been a whole different monster. We shot straight back up to the crestline at over 10000 ft. and clammered across jagged, endless boulder fields for the next six hours. The terrain up here is stark and desolate. The wind is relentless and biting.

About four miles into the section (we are now in the Emigrant Wilderness) we crossed paths, yet again, with Billy Goat. He laughed his silly laugh and wishd us luck on he rest of our trip. "It's cold up in the high country," he warned. We watched him trek off over the impressive and stark grey, brown landscape towards a narrow, rocky gap in the saurian ridgeline.

The rest of the day was pleasant enough. We dropped down into Kennedy Canyon where we passed our 2400th mile marker and descended easily for the afternoon until setting camp early at a junction with the West Walker River.

For the first time since climbing Mt. San Jacinto in May, we built a nice campfire tonight. There was a fire ring set up alongside a big stone shelf and once we had the fire roaring, the heat bounced off he wall and lit up the whole camp with a warm orange glow. Eliza and I sat out well into darkness after finishing a nice dinner of freeze-dried sweet and sour pork and green beans, talking and laughing.

Sept 16: Gettin back into it

We are breaking on the white, feldspar-flecked, sparkling trail under the beautiful blue canvass sky with close, low floating cotton whisps swiftly passing overhead. I gaze out over the Carson River canyon and make out the rich, chocolate brown of the bark on many a gnarled old Mountain Juniper, stark and stately they stand against the towering cliffs of chalk dust granite. I feel a pinl hint of anticipation that these stone faces will start speaking soon, telling tales of nothing having ever changed.

Around me here now are whitebark pines, tall and thin. Water crashes heavily in the canyon below. Up and to my left, Eliza stretches on a rough, pale boulder dome. The sun, way up and past her, further up the sky, still peaking down into the canyon and its chill, is making the scene hazy and dreamy. Eliza is feeling sick again -- or still, more accurately. She is afraid that she has gotten something in her stomach, perhaps from pond water, not boiled long enough. I don't know what to do or say. It's a shame that we suffer on our own in this life. Then again, this is a good spot to feel the sickness of creatures in your stomach, I guess. The clouds might be the perfect distraction. Something to focus and meditate on. The way their shadows flit over the uneven cracks and crags of the great stone faces across the canyon. Eliza is stretched out on her back in the sun now. The breeze is picking up and biting through my shirt and shorts. We are up and off now, returning for the first time to 10,000-foot elevations since leaving California three months ago.

We set camp tonight at a bitter windy pass, in the dry, soft bed of a summertime pond. We are having trouble cooking due to the quick licks of warmth stealing breeze and the thin air altitude.

We lie in our puffy, blue bags. I read Kerouac's "The Dharma Bums" outloud -- picked up at home, to reread here in the mountains he finds so uplifting and freeing.

We are three full days along now, feeling our way back into the swing of things. Eliza is still physically a bit uneasy, however. I hope that whatever it is just passes.

Sept. 15: Cowbell windchimes

It is a blessing and a privilege to be here in these northern Sierras. Volcanic, striated buttes, open sweeping vistas, the coming winter's icy, desolate winds, free-roaming herds of cowbell-jangling cattle. There is quite a lot out here to stimulate the senses. I find it difficult to keep up. It feels almost like we are getting spoiled with all of this scenery.

Eliza is under the weather. We are taking lots of stops and have set camp early after a short nineteen miles for the day. The hiking is strenuous and we both feel weighed down under our packs.

Mama's Boy and Seattle Dave passed us as we lay talking in the tent this early evening. They plan on stopping just ahead at the saddle over the lake where we are.

Sept. 14: The weight

We awoke this morning to a new morning's mountain chill. My body quaked and the world was once again completely new and foreboding. The sun had already started to lighten the sky outside the tent as we stirred. It was later than when we had been routinely rising before leaving the trail two weeks ago. The 5:25 am alarm will no longer suffice as we are now loathe to leave the cozy warmth of our lofted goose down dens before the frosty sparkle of the stars has dimmed to a subtlety in the morning's grey grim expanse.

We took our time breaking camp, eating breakfast, packing and repacking our packs, figuring the best way to fit in the extra gear and the bear canister. The prospect of a full day before us and the heavily laden unweildy cold-weather ready packs have us both a bit daunted as we start in on mounting this high country. Two weeks seems to have done a job on our muscle tone and respiratory systems, not to mention our heretofore unfailing fortitude in the face of hardship.

Early on we passed a few other hikers. We assumed that they were weekenders or day hikers, but while stopping to admire the reflection of a set of cliffy mountain crags in the crystal surface of Showers Lake we were joined by a southbound through hiker named Mama's Boy. He said he recognized our names from registers and informed us that there is a sizeable pack just behind us, up to a dozen now including Zed and the Gimp, and Wildcat and Nickel and others.

We made good time today. We were both eager to get that feeling of progress back.

We camped at a small pond near a road and had another cold night to contend with.

Sept. 13: "John Muir walked away into the mountains..."

We had walked for 1100 miles with only a single full day's rest. We had covered a total of 2313 miles over the course of the past four months. And then we came down out of the woods onto the paved shoulder of Route 50 and stuck out our thumbs. We've been off the trail for almost two weeks now, travelled back and forth across the continent. And here we are again back up among the pine trees. The point of departure is somewhere straight ahead, off down the road, along the shoulder of Highway 50, south of Echo Lake.

We're rolling down the Interstate eastbound away from San Francisco, a last leg awaiting. The home stretch. A drop in the bucket. Is it really just a drop in the bucket? Could 350 miles ever compare to such a miniscule thing? Headed back, it all feels so strange. The 350 is a bit daunting to me, as I look out over the fantastically white, boulder strewn cliffsides. Yet, at the same time, we are both, I know, feeling excited, eager, anticipating a positive and relaxing re-immersion into the out-of-doors.

For me, this break has been a good thing. I spent a few days here in CA, visited with some friends, hung out in sunny Davis and sat alone in chilly, dark movie theatres drinking Cokes and feeling a timeless feeling.

There has been a lot of moving and traveling this past week. Cars, planes, trains, buses -- it all happens (they move) so fast. It is amazing that we can move so violently, so swiftly and at such short notice, without so much as a fleeting flinch and it is just the way it is, all in a matter of course. Looking out at the five-laner outside the window right now as we fly by the hazy Sacramento skyline -- so many people all burning gas, all implicitly trusting in one another to play by the rules, play it safe, drive carefully, watch out.

Another September 11th has come and gone. The world is a different word now than it was before that tragic Tuesday in 2001. This year, I was a passenger on two sold-out, Sunday afternoon flights, as was Eliza. Back in NYC, my mother and I reflected on our memories of the events which occurred four years ago -- where we were, how the news came to us, what we did, how we felt etc. We ate lunch in New Paltz with the editor/webmaster of this journal and he commented on the geography of the region saying that he hasn't driven into the City since without considering how the pilots in those planes looked down on the Hudson and used it as a guide down into the City towards their target.

The encroaching forest and the great, unmoving boulders around me now seem to say that such a thing should be an impossibility in this world. Change should never truly occur so quickly.

***

The rest of the day was spent relaxing in South Lake Tahoe. Jan, Eliza's friend from El Cerrito, took us out to lunch and the three of us took out a paddle boat for a quick jaunt out on the deep, clear blue water. Afterwards, we ate ice cream cones and popped over to the Nevada side of town to poke our heads into the casinos and drop a couple quarters in the slots before heading back up to the pass and setting forth once again.

Jan walked with us for 25 minutes or so before bidding us a good, safe journey. The trail was rocky and steep within the hour.

We set camp after two or three miles. Darkness descended suddenly and with it came a brisk new evening chill.

"Blog for Relief" Day

Editor's note: We've taken the liberty of joining Wolf's blog with the hundreds more than one thousand others requesting support for the victims of Hurricane Katrina. Donations may be made to the charity of your choice, including:

A list of particpating blogs can be found here.

August 31: Desolation Wilds

The Desolation Wilderness is something to behold -- a stark, jagged, boulder-strewn, vast alpine lake-spackled moonscape. And it is something entiely different to hike across. It is a place so easy on the eyes, yet hard -- oh so very hard -- on the feet.

We walked our last day down to Hwy 50 today. For me, it was a brutal, painful trek. The descent down to Echo Lake was interminably long and ankle-breakingly rugged. I am sure that to some degree my body was simply shutting down early in anticipation of the break before us. My socks, a pair that I've been rotating through since Mexico finally gave out, the gaping holes giving way to searing, sore hot spots -- the maddening pre-blister pain foci. My sneakers seem to have lost all rigidity; each and every sharp little stone, cobble, and boulder drilling into my pounding foot like an electric cow prod or some such thing.

We made it at last to the nice but uninviting resort spot of Echo Lake. The store had just closed but they let us in for a quick ice cream bar before we pushed on through and covered the last mile down to the highway.

We caught a ride with a nice, talkative guy -- Dan, I think -- who works for the California Conservation Corps doing conservation and restoration team work out near Yosemite. He had done a Peace Corps stint in Tanzania years ago and seemed to know exactly where we are at in our own lives. He brought us as far as Placerville, just east of Sacramento (this northern California is much larger than we had thought), and after a quick attempt at thumbing another ride farther west we decided that this would have to be home for the night and strolled into town.

We spent the evening watching horrified and stunned as the images of hurricane Katrina and its destruction rolled, over and over agan, on the TV above our table at the pizza place. Eliza sobbed in disbelief at the hopeless extent of human suffering projected on the insensitively broadcast Fox News special. We left soberly and climbed a hill to find a relatively secluded spot behind some Oak cover and set camp for the night.

Tomorrow, it's on to the San Francisco Bay.

August 30: Longest day

Bill (Pooh) had us up and fed and out the door early today. He was clanging about in the kitchen, mixing and frying at 5am. The hikers were groggily filing in and out of the bathrooms, stuffing away sleeping bags, filling up water bottles, etc. Before we knew it, we had been piled into the back of his pick-up and were looking back down the highway as the yellow morning sun broke over the crest of the Nevadan Mountans to the east.

Within five miles of the trailhead at windy Donner Pass we had climbed up onto the Sierra Crest and were speedily, excitedly traversing the howling, frigid landscape. Lake Tahoe appeared before us as we ascended up and around Tinker's Knob and we were treated with expansive views of the massive body of water intermittently throughout the day.

We bade Shade a final farewell at a small creekside campsite and Eliza and I made for our longest day to date. At 7:30 we dropped our packs and plopped down under the fading sky. We covered 35.5 miles today, certainly the longest day so far and, given the reputation of the terrain to come, the longest of any day we will yet hike as well.

We are both feeling well, excited, rejuvenated after two huge meals at Pooh Corner.

One more day to go and then a break.