Every time I turned I was astonished and could have stood motionless listening to the life around me and witnessing nothing more than dead granite for hours, and I would have felt complete. Every turn was a new view, a new place I hadn’t seen, a thought that was, until that moment, unhatched within the recesses of my small brain. Every turn was something new and I couldn’t wait to take the next one.
I’ve been backpacking ever since I learned to walk at the late age of 13. With an external framed pack and gear bought at yard sales, I headed into the backcountry for the first time as a Boy Scout (that sentence just made me throw up, not because it was a particularly bad sentence, but rather that I confessed to having been a Boy Scout). Ever since, I have walked into the woods and found myself so many times that being lost is my normal state of being. Sitting in front of this screen tapping out these words lacks the awe and uniqueness of what can be found when “modern life” is left behind.
We ran into a random individual just this side of Cathedral Pass. We had peaked and he was headed to the top. He was friendly and asked how much farther it was to the top and then mentioned he had 16 miles to drop and he would be done. He was on his last day of thru-hiking the John Muir Trail. 220 miles in 11 days. We parted ways.
Back in my wee days of dreaming about being a hobo and concocting life scenarios that would allow me to live on the trail/road, I subscribed to Backpacker magazine and read and reread every page. At some point, I came across an article about the next turn. As contributing members of society, we all have to, at some point, return. Meaning that we have to not take the next turn, not see what lies beyond the next bend, but rather sigh and leave that stone unturned for another day. I’m usually ready to be done when I hit a trailhead that is my exit from simplicity. This trip I wasn’t. I hit the trailhead with a cough and a fever and just wanted to turn around and head back uphill into the wilderness, there were so many turns I hadn’t explored yet. So many vistas that were not captured within the memories of my soul. So many places that I wanted to be…
Our journey began Thursday evening. We gathered at the Mooseknuckler Cycling Alliance Social Lounge, jammed what would be our supplies for the week and headed out without a specific destination, other than as far as we could get, for the evening. It quickly became clear that this was a hobo journey. A journey that had a start and an end, but would be defined by our circumstances and how that correlated with our time and space.
I was the driver. Shelby, Ben and KB were the passengers. We headed North on the 95 and entered the dead zone as the last rays of sunshine were disappearing from the view of the windshield. We continued. They don’t call me the truck driver for nothing. Not that I could have slept. Of the four people in that car, I was the only one listening. Ben and Shelby were so busy eating sugar that the volume kept increasing and my ability to get a word in edgewise decreased exponentially.
We hit Tonopah.
I was about done driving. We drove through town, got some gas and inquired as to some camping spots. The gas station employee was about as helpful as a treasure map and we drove out of town with no specific place to spend the night. Shelby busted out the Googles and found a dirt road that had some openings on it. We found the road, found an opening and turned the car off. We were about 100 yards off the highway in a gravel pit. Yup, hoboin’ it proper like.
Tents were pitched and bedrolls unrolled and sleep over took our sugary little group.
As a hobo, one must always be ready to hit the road again and be flexible in what is an acceptable place to rest one’s head. This night was no exception as we were awoken twice by vehicles coming strangely close to our little camp. The second of witch was a small pickup with no bed on it that pulled right up next to the Mooseknuckler-mobile and stopped. This woke me up and I was immediately worried that the truck wouldn’t see Ben and Shelby’s tents and run them over or that the idiot was drunk. He stopped and then cranked the wheel and hit the gas. He left us after doing several brodies right next to our camp and speeded off down the dirt road.
The sun rose.
We packed up our hobo camp and headed down the road toward our destination. Well, first we headed back into town for some coffee and then we headed down the road toward our destination knowing only that we would be there that day. Shelby, our fearless trip leader and capitan, spoke of bakeries that had food that flowed like beer and wine that was like milk in a distant town known only as Bishop. We ended up eating at Denny’s. Ben wouldn’t have anything to do with it and as we basked in the subpar food of that disgusting chain, he hung out by the car brushing his teeth and readying his gear. Yea, I think he’ll fit in fine with this Alliance.
Once we were full, we were all anxious to reach the place of granite spires and rushing rivers and we made haste toward Yosemite.