Father would plan the trip weeks in advance of Memorial Day, for Memorial Day, late spring, was the Garden of Eden in the Sierras; the weather, he said, would be warm, but not not hot; the evenings cool, but not cold. The risk of late season rain or snow would be minimal, and the snowfields would be melted so that we could easily traverse the shale slopes beneath. The mosquitoes would not have hatched. The crowds would not come to the John Muir Trail until later in the season. The altitude would be too high for rattlesnakes.
The last was cause for some concern, for while "no rattlesnakes" was certainly a cause for rejoicing, the fact that rattlesnakes found the altitude discouraging was somewhat alarming. If the altitude was too high for rattlesnakes, hardy little venomous beasties that they are, was there not also the possibility that it would be too high for my sister and me? My mom was a nurse, my parents outdoor enthusiasts. We read all about those people who died on Everest. And K-2. And Lhotse, and Nanga Parbat, and Annapurna. And we read about those poor souls who died on the lesser ascents of Mount Whitney and Mount Rainier, all due to complications of altitude, ice fields, and those euphemistically named "uncontrolled rope descents," - or, in layman's terms - fell off the side of the mountain. Pulmonary edema, or cerebral edema; between the allergic cough, fatigue from the unusual exertion, and the dehydration headache, how could you distinguish the early symptoms of a more serious ailment from those lesser common complaints?
Father would watch the weather report for weeks in advance, even though in the 1970s weather science was far less advanced, without the nifty computer generated graphics and models, and anything longer than a three day forecast was roughly as reliable as a Sylvia Browne predication for which celebrities would die in the coming year. Not that he would have canceled the trip if rain were in the picture. No, backpacking was about building family closeness through shared suffering and indignity, not about having fun. Bad weather would simply amplify the intimacy effect.
The day came, we arose early and drove for hours to "Base Camp," and emerged from the car needing to pee. Inevitably, within minutes - and probably behind the dismally reeking hole-in-the-ground that stood in for a toilet - we would spot our first rattlesnake. Yes, in retrospect I am certain it was a nauseated, dehydrated, rattlesnake in the throes of pulmonary edema, but nonetheless the first indicator of the fallibility of parental knowledge.
That Garden of Eden atmosphere generally proved elusive. The days were blistering, the nights freezing. Not all the snow had melted, just enough to transform the meadows into swamp lands. Shale slopes are not actually "easily traversed," in fact, the only thing that is easy to do when traversing a shale slope is to precipitate a minor rockslide or fall and sprain one's ankle. The mosquito convention was in full force, and I was evidently particularly tasty. And the John Muir Trail was well populated with serious hikers who had come early to avoid the crowds, and Father, with his underlying goal of demonstrating his athletic prowess through his children, expected my sister and me to out-hike them all.
Father always planned a six day trip, and optimistically expected us to hike seven miles per day. This is a reasonable expectation for a well conditioned adult. It is not a reasonable expectation for an eight year old, particularly not at a high altitude. We were lucky to put four miles under our belts on the first day. Then I would inevitably throw up at the campsite the first night, usually exactly where my father had selected as the ideal spot to pitch the tent. What can I say, my sense of placement has always been impeccable.
Six days, however, is all too long for soap-and-water addicted small children to survive in the wilds. By the third day, my sister and I were determined to hike the entire remaining distance in order to get back to modern plumbing, delicious food, and comfortable sleeping accommodations. Usually, the weather would oblige, with a hearty storm blowing in on the third night. In the morning, awakening to a cold breeze and black clouds, Father would curse the weatherman for being wrong, and the Gulf Stream for doing what comes naturally. "We have to hike out today," he would say, angrily shaking his head, and talking to himself, "Fine, fine, fine...and the kids were having such a good time."
As a side note, this is how parents induce mental illness in their children - they subject their children to the most miserable of conditions, and then tell the kids how much fun it is. "Kids, let's read Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire' - isn't it fun?" - "Let's do quadratic equations for a few hours - it'll be fun!," "Let's hike 20 miles in the blistering sun at 9000 feet with mosquitoes sucking the Type A out of every square inch of exposed skin! That'll be fun!" Yeah, right. NO. No, it won't be fun, and don't try to convince your child otherwise, or they won't think that fun means fun, and they will grow up equating "fun" with such things as tax season and lower back pain.
It was amazing what a good dose of misery did for my sister and me in terms of our stamina. The reward of a nice warm car, a nice warm bath, and a nice warm bed was adequate for us to perform prodigious feats of athleticism, climbing over boulders, miles of switchbacks, and using flashlights as the sun set to keep track of where the trail was. Day four, we were done, and I think we maintained a perfect record on that. In honor of that feat, Happy Memorial Day. Make it a day hike. Or stay home.
