Walking in, walking out
Aug. 22, at the San Joaquin River, beyond Florence Lake
Mark Crosse and I just climbed off the Florence Lake ferry. There were just the two of us headed out. On the other side, there must have been 25 tired, bug-eaten people waiting to get on that ferry and go back to their lives.
Most were smudged with the mountains -- a little dirt here and there, an occasional spot of sap from some lodgepole pine tree. Salty sweat rings drooped all over their shirts.
Now, I'm remembering how tough this is physically. A kind of dread stirs.
I glanced around. I was astounded by the beauty of the hydroelectric lake, Florence Lake, and I was so pleased to be breathing clear, pine-scented air above 7,000 feet. But I reminded myself there are no bathrooms or Starbucks up here. There would be no air conditioning when I'm overheated, no heater when the chill runs through my body at sunset.
For just a moment, I thought, "What am I doing here? I have a comfortable life with an impossible mortgage at home."
Then Crosse taps me on the shoulder and points to the trail. Up and out we go. Sweating and breathing that pine-scented air, I was soon lost in this paradise. An hour later, I wondered why I had that moment of doubt.
This entry was written Aug. 22 on the trail but published after returning to Fresno.