July 18th . . . am I finally solo?

7:35 a.m. I made it all the way to Twin Lakes last night (but stayed up on the trail, in the trees) with just enough light to set up the tent and cook. 

I camped with an older gentleman––Dave Porter, of Portola Valley. Nice guy. 

I’d left some of my stuff on a rock and had to go back for it, in the fading light. As I came back I could see the pink glow of the sunset. 

Today, I plan on going all the way to Charlotte Lake, which means doing Glen Pass, sometime in the late afternoon. 

Wish me luck. 

6:30 p.m. Oh well, so I am not at the top of Glen Pass. At least I am below it. I’m here at Rae Lake––it’s worth it to stay here, just for the bear box. 

I also met a nice couple, “Brad and Mo” who convinced me that the pass would be cold and dark by the time I reached it. 

As long as I am still ahead of him, I am fine. I’ll get up early and get out quick––none of this leaving at 9 a.m., stuff. 

Rae Lakes are very pretty. I went for the world’s quickest swim. 

It took a long time of standing around in the water up to my knees, then crotch, then Bingo! up to my shoulders and I was out of there!

I’m a cold water wimp. 

The mosquito’s linger outside my tent. The last of the birds who don’t know when to quit, cackle in the tree tops and the snow melt, that is Rae Lakes, flows downwards towards a civilized ending. 

Jets pass overhead and I think of them in their turbulent comfort. 

Those people counting down the minutes until landing, catching that last drink––their lives dependent on technology as I lie here in their wake. 

. . . Last night a strange light passed over my tent. I think the aliens came down and inhabited my camp-mate. In the morning, he told me his diet: pop tarts, cold cereal with powdered milk, fig newtons and Tang. 

The Tang did it––these were aliens behind the times, but I sure wanted one of those pop tarts. 

He even looked possessed. He swore like crazy, as though he were only given a vocabulary of expletives, but didn’t quite know when the correct one applied. 

And here he was in this most moon-like of settings––the cold, barren altitudes of the Sierra. I am sure, Dave from Portola Valley, is now possessed by martians. 

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