The bear and her cub are somewhere down in the valley, long forgotten.
I trudged up towards Forester until about 6 p.m. last night and found, Bill.
He was sitting at the base of our assault, or tree-line, just looking up at the mountains of rock.
I decided that, I too, would sit and stare and R-E-S-T . . . made some of my newly acquired T-shirt coffee, ate, talked and thought about today’s climb.
At the moment, I do not want to get out of the bag, but when I do get out––I’m not stopping until I hit Guitar Lake.
I don’t remember Bill, this guy I spent the night with, below Forester on the grand meadow, or plateau as I’ve always called it––it doesn’t actually have a name.
I do remember how serious he was and how I almost felt as though I’d walked in on him in some religious moment, in some holy shrine and I was the loud guy, unawares of where I was and being inconsiderate of the moment.
I also think that this was the first time that I’d really, truly, been struck and in the absolute moment, of where I was––this amazing shrine of rock and light.
Unlike all the other passes, which are rather obvious and can be figured out in no time, Forester, is, while in that meadow, a mystery––there’s no sitting there and saying, yup, tomorrow gonna go right up there and over.
Forester kind of gets to slap you down––you think you’re done, you aren’t even done.