We see alpine flowers. At first, my eye catches just one feathery white bloom. But then I see another flower and another color and another until I'm taking in a whole wave of hues.

It's like being on a sailboat and catching sight of one dolphin. Then you see two. Then you realize there are 200 dolphins racing you.

Seeing the whole almost always starts with spotting the one.

But near the top -- or at least what we hope is the top because we can see blue sky -- the flowers disappear. The trail turns to climbing over rocks.We've been hiking for six hours.

I'm so tired that I'm stepping up with my leg and using my hand on my thigh to push it back. Darrell is using trekking poles, but he's leaning on them so hard that he looks four-legged.

The trail is still beautiful. But in a different way. Now it's an open, spare beauty. White rock. Blue sky. Steep. Brutal.
I'll come to a stone five inches tall. And pause. Stare at it. Ponder how I will get over this obstacle.

Making myself pick up my foot is always harder than the actual step.

We trudge and climb in labored silence.

Then suddenly, I look up, and, wow, there it is, the promised land.

There's a vast green meadow below us, hugged by protective mountains, crossed by streams, and sat in by Emily, who is now waving to us.

She says there's a bathroom.

She says there's a spigot with drinkable water.

I think that it doesn't get any better than this.

But I don't know this very night will find me eating grilled halibut with a sauce by a cook who has been mentioned in Bon Apetit. And going to a once-a-year party on a granite dome under a full moon.

This was written while on the trail, but published after returning to Fresno.