July 18, 2004

Once again, it seems that there are few ailments in life that cannot be cured by the proper administration of a trip to the high sierras.

This picture is, essentially, what I saw when I stepped out of my tent this morning, and turned my head to the left. The little stream is the Clark Fork of the Stanislaus River--a cute little sierran creek that alternates between slow pools, rocky rapids, and impressive gorges, all within the length of a few miles.

And this picture, is what I saw when I looked up towards the sky, through a canopy of Jeffrey and Logdepole pines. It's not a great picture, but it is a great view. The campground where we were is a good bit farther south than the mountains that I'm used to, but the elevation is right--about a mile up. There were more Jefferys than ponderosas, and the dirt was more brown than red, but the air was nice and clear, the nights were cold, and the night-bugs-from-hell were out in full force.

We were camping with my in-laws--Shorn's brother, mother, aunt, and the ever-charismatic cousin Tony. This is the spot in the sierras where Tony has spent his summers. This place is to him as the area around Rita Celestial's cabin has been to me, and so many others. So I delighted in watching him frolic in the outdoors, observing the world through eleven year old eyes, and relating his findings to us with an appropriate serving of gusto and exaggeration. And I listened with enjoyment to his dreamy-eyed plans of getting to live "up here" year-round someday.

It was good to be up in the mountains. Good to cook over a real fire, and sleep on a dying air mattress, and pee behind a tree in the middle of a moonless night, terrified that the local bear would wander by at any moment. Good to walk up and down the river for hours, and play poker by propane light until midnight, and wake up to coffee mixed with cocoa powder and dirt. Good to be in the mountains.