Tuesday
I set off on my adventure with the shout of my brother as I’m driving off – “Hey, where’d you leave Big Boy??” –echoing pleasantly in my ears. It’s not long, however, before a little nugget of concern starts to burrow into my brain. I believe it’s when I see the “Very strong winds next 28 miles, proceed with caution” sign, and shortly thereafter am almost taken out as I try to pass a lumbering 18-wheeler that almost gets whipped off the road. The cow signs are next – “cattle crossings next 60 miles, be prepared to stop suddenly.” Suddenly, it seems, peril is everywhere.
In the middle of this vastness of tumbleweeds and danger, I come across the first motel I’ve seen yet, one of the roadside places that my brother spoke of:
Not only does it look like a slasher movie cliché, but the fact that it can only aspire to the “luxury” of the Bates is not a good sign. I press on.
While I have yet to see a wildflower, I do soon see another alarming sign for heretofore unimagined dangers: crazed elk crossings. At least, the elk look pretty crazed on the signs – leaping into the air, mouth agape in an almost feral snarl. This is when the lightbulb FINALLY goes off – my brother is attempting to employ the well-known Machiavellian “death by caffeine/heavy foods/marauding elk” scheme to do me in! Aha! Now that I’ve realized this, I can be more vigilant.
In the meantime, though, I’m on my current mission, like it or not: wildflowers or bust. Soon (meaning after another 300 windy, dusty miles in the middle of nowhere), I come to the town of Lone Pine. While I had pictured a small decrepit town rolling in tumbleweeds, it’s actually kind of quaint. By “quaint” here I mean there are actually hotels/motels that appear to be held together by something other than duct tape, AND a little coffee shop. Civilization!
I choose to stay at the Dow Villa hotel, which was built in the ‘20s and apparently catered to all
the movie stars that came here to shoot Westerns – I of course decide to stay in the original hotel building rather than the “newer” 50s motel section, though I almost rethink this when I lug my stuff up the stairs to the 2nd floor and maneuver myself into my shoebox of a room. But then I think about the fact that I have a great view of the Grand Tetons or Kilamanjaro or whatever mountain range is outside my window, and remind myself that John Wayne and Greta Garbo undoubtedly stayed in this VERY same room, and I’m content. Who needs the fancy-schmancy motel rooms with their “Frigidaire” and other luxuries? Roughing it is the essence of my very soul.
After unpacking my hiking gear and making sure I have a couple of pounds of trail mix with me for the arduous trek ahead, I decide I’ll follow my brother’s directions to see what happens. Of course, as I’m driving up the Whitney Trail Road that he claimed would take me somewhere to the trailhead nearest the peak, I come across……a roadblock. Because of snow or some such lame excuse, my access to the trailhead is denied, dammit. What a bunch of wimps – being from the Midwest, we’d hardly let something like a foot or two of snow and ice stand in our way.
Thus, I park the General Lee on some rocky overlook and set out, “trails” be damned. Though I guess they would be helpful when climbing what seems to be practically vertical hills. As I huff and puff over the mountains, I bask in the fact that because I’m climbing at altitude, my efforts fall under the 2x rule, whereby every 1,000 feet of elevation doubles one’s perceived exertion and thereby training time. Though, once I see what is clearly bear droppings (piles of small, uniform objects about the size and shape of olives), I decide that I’ve had enough of risking my life for one day, and I head back. The smugness I feel in calculating my daily training hours, which in this case equals 12 (20 min. hike at 8,000 feet) is exhilarating. My dilemma for tomorrow – more of this same crazy training madness, or do I tackle……..Death Valley?
In the middle of this vastness of tumbleweeds and danger, I come across the first motel I’ve seen yet, one of the roadside places that my brother spoke of:
Not only does it look like a slasher movie cliché, but the fact that it can only aspire to the “luxury” of the Bates is not a good sign. I press on.
While I have yet to see a wildflower, I do soon see another alarming sign for heretofore unimagined dangers: crazed elk crossings. At least, the elk look pretty crazed on the signs – leaping into the air, mouth agape in an almost feral snarl. This is when the lightbulb FINALLY goes off – my brother is attempting to employ the well-known Machiavellian “death by caffeine/heavy foods/marauding elk” scheme to do me in! Aha! Now that I’ve realized this, I can be more vigilant.
In the meantime, though, I’m on my current mission, like it or not: wildflowers or bust. Soon (meaning after another 300 windy, dusty miles in the middle of nowhere), I come to the town of Lone Pine. While I had pictured a small decrepit town rolling in tumbleweeds, it’s actually kind of quaint. By “quaint” here I mean there are actually hotels/motels that appear to be held together by something other than duct tape, AND a little coffee shop. Civilization!
I choose to stay at the Dow Villa hotel, which was built in the ‘20s and apparently catered to all
the movie stars that came here to shoot Westerns – I of course decide to stay in the original hotel building rather than the “newer” 50s motel section, though I almost rethink this when I lug my stuff up the stairs to the 2nd floor and maneuver myself into my shoebox of a room. But then I think about the fact that I have a great view of the Grand Tetons or Kilamanjaro or whatever mountain range is outside my window, and remind myself that John Wayne and Greta Garbo undoubtedly stayed in this VERY same room, and I’m content. Who needs the fancy-schmancy motel rooms with their “Frigidaire” and other luxuries? Roughing it is the essence of my very soul.After unpacking my hiking gear and making sure I have a couple of pounds of trail mix with me for the arduous trek ahead, I decide I’ll follow my brother’s directions to see what happens. Of course, as I’m driving up the Whitney Trail Road that he claimed would take me somewhere to the trailhead nearest the peak, I come across……a roadblock. Because of snow or some such lame excuse, my access to the trailhead is denied, dammit. What a bunch of wimps – being from the Midwest, we’d hardly let something like a foot or two of snow and ice stand in our way.
Thus, I park the General Lee on some rocky overlook and set out, “trails” be damned. Though I guess they would be helpful when climbing what seems to be practically vertical hills. As I huff and puff over the mountains, I bask in the fact that because I’m climbing at altitude, my efforts fall under the 2x rule, whereby every 1,000 feet of elevation doubles one’s perceived exertion and thereby training time. Though, once I see what is clearly bear droppings (piles of small, uniform objects about the size and shape of olives), I decide that I’ve had enough of risking my life for one day, and I head back. The smugness I feel in calculating my daily training hours, which in this case equals 12 (20 min. hike at 8,000 feet) is exhilarating. My dilemma for tomorrow – more of this same crazy training madness, or do I tackle……..Death Valley?
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