A Transformative Journey on the John Muir Trail
In the wake of his father’s death and recently fired from his job, Gil agrees to accompany his father’s best friend Syd on a monthlong hike on the John Muir Trail. There’s just one problem: Gil hates camping and is woefully unprepared for the rigors of the 200-mile journey. Moreover, he learns Syd may not survive the hike.
Set authentically in the High Sierra and fused with insightful accounts of history and ecology, The Trail illustrates how wilderness can serve as our greatest guide.
A Transformative Journey on the John Muir Trail
In the wake of his father’s death and recently fired from his job, Gil agrees to accompany his father’s best friend Syd on a monthlong hike on the John Muir Trail. There’s just one problem: Gil hates camping and is woefully unprepared for the rigors of the 200-mile journey. Moreover, he learns Syd may not survive the hike.
Set authentically in the High Sierra and fused with insightful accounts of history and ecology, The Trail illustrates how wilderness can serve as our greatest guide.
Life is like traffic: You get caught up in it, but when it’s over, what do you have to show for it? Nothing.
I was gonna be late, but what did it matter? It wasn’t like I really wanted to go anyway. What was I thinking—hiking the John Muir Trail with some old geezer? Stuck in the woods for nearly a month without a phone, decent food, or even a shower?
I plain hated camping. Not just the bugs and the sunscreen and trying to sleep on the cold hard ground, but that Pop would still be with us if it weren’t for camping, or maybe if I had gone with him that one last time. What did I hope to gain by going now? It wasn’t too late to call Pop’s old buddy up, make some excuse, and turn back.
This whole thing had been Ma’s fault. “It’ll be great,” she’d wheedled over the phone nearly four months ago, when the whole damn thing came up. “It’ll refresh you. Get you back on track. Maybe he can help you find another job or give you some advice about colleges. You are still considering going back, aren’t you? This trip will give you some perspective.”
I got my perspective fine watching old kung fu flicks and searching for hookups online— the women in the woods would probably all look like Sasquatch! Why had I ever agreed?
“Your father would have wanted you to go,” she’d pressed, playing on my guilt.
That was the real reason, wasn’t it? He and the guy had been hiking partners since before Ma and Pop even met—and now this might be my last chance to understand something Pop had really loved. Something that in the end left Ma and I buried under everything that had come crashing down after. Maybe if I’d understood that, he’d still be with us now.
Ma had set me up, and when the old guy called, I could hardly say no. It wasn’t like I had something urgent going on—being laid off and everything. This damned trip had all seemed so far off back then, but now the whole reality of it was kicking in.
The 405 was stop-and-go all the way up. I sat baking in my old Miata, the AC too much to fix after getting all this camping gear. Hotel California was blasting on my mix, “You can check out any time you like but you can never leave”—the perfect song for trying to escape the black hole of LA’s traffic gravity. But that would just be my excuse, my universal excuse for running late. The real reason was Jasmine.
I shouldn’ta gone out the night before a big trip and all—but she’d been such an easy hookup, and it’d been weeks since my last successful encounter.
“You have such a cute tummy, like a big Buddha,” she’d crooned as we’d rolled around under her sheets. As if my sagging beer gut were something to be proud of. Back in college I’d been a fit competitive swimmer, able to do the 100-yard freestyle in less than 48 seconds, juggling schoolwork and a job as assistant editor of The Beacon—what the hell happened to me?
I said I’d call her. She didn’t need to know I’d be gone for a month. Besides, no matter who you cared about, it never worked out anyway—I was simply saving us both the trouble of an ugly breakup.
My car bumped and buckled as I pulled on to the long potholed drive, bouncing along between furrowed fields and a row of old olive trees towards the white Victorian farmhouse the old guy had described. The two-story building was flanked by a pair of smaller houses, both in need of some repair. Beyond them were open fields and a graying old barn. Shit—was I really gonna go through with this? Did I really need to be stirring up all those memories? It’d been nearly ten years since Pop’d died.
Before I could even straighten out my hair, a tall beauty in a long white dress with flowing auburn hair emerged from the main building, her left hand clutching a small black handbag. She strode briskly toward me, the gravel crunching under her shoes. She looked about my age, maybe older.
I got out, standing a bit unsteadily after the long drive. Shit—I hadn’t even showered since yesterday.
She extended a thin graceful arm and we shook hands a bit stiffly. Her face was tense. Her eyes swollen. “I’m Cass, I don’t know if you remember me?”
This was his daughter? I had memories of playing LEGOs with her and her brother when we’d visited them ages ago out in Berkeley. “Ma said you were running an organic farm or something, but I mean, wow, you’ve grown.”
“Thanks,” she swallowed hard, breaking into tears. “I’m so glad you agreed to go with him. I’ve told him a thousand times this whole thing is insane! That in his condition he needs to stay home and be with family. But he keeps insisting on this whole crazy wilderness thing—”
Why was she so upset? She wasn’t the one going—
“Maybe you don’t know my dad, but once he gets an idea into his head you can’t change it. You don’t know how many people he’s called trying to get someone to go with him— but who has a month off for something like this? He was even talking about going alone! Can you believe it? Try to talk some sense into him. Try to get him to call this whole crazy thing off.”
Was her father’s condition really so serious? Ma had told me he’d survived his cancer, that he was in remission or something. And Ma hadn’t told me he’d asked other people to join him. She’d said he’d specifically asked for me. That’s why I’d agreed to go, ’cause of Pop and all. Still, chicks were always freaking out about nothing. I stood, waiting for her to finish.
“I know you can’t phone anyone from out there, but promise me if anything happens, you’ll find some way to get him to a doctor, then call me, OK?”
“I will.”
“Thank you!” she hugged me tightly. I stood supporting her, her tears moistening my shirt. Finally, she released me.
Pulling out a tissue, she dried her eyes. “I’d really hoped to be able to chat more, but I have to get my son—they’ve already called me twice from the school.”
Of course she had a kid. She probably had a charming husband too. It had always been my fate to meet dead-end hookups like Jasmine. All the good ones were either taken or total heartbreakers. “Sorry, there was a lot of traffic,” I said.
She handed me a long list. Phone numbers of relatives, hospitals, and doctors that she had prepared, all carefully laminated in plastic. Then she pulled out three small pill bottles. “These are some strong antibiotics, some painkillers, and sedatives you can give him if there are any problems. The instructions are on each bottle.” I took them, nodding mutely. Was I supposed to be the old man’s caretaker for a month? Is that what they had really wanted?
“He’s quite weak.” She dabbed her eyes. “He needs care and rest. He’s refused all medication, and even his doctors have warned him against this trip. But he’s obsessed with the trail. He even made me drive him up to Berkeley to collect articles from the library there. And frankly,” she continued without pausing to breathe, “at first I even encouraged him a bit, because it seemed like the only thing keeping him alive. He thinks he can do it, but you have to know he’s really quite frail. Don’t let him push himself too far. If things get tough, just turn back or find help. And call me when you can, OK?”
“OK.”
“He’s in there,” she indicated one of the side buildings. She looked like she was going to tear up again, but then turned and rushed off, her heavy heels clapping on the rough drive. Climbing into a white Camry, she gave me a long look from the window, indicated the building again, then drove off.
I stared at the three carefully labeled orange pill bottles with their white screw-down lids. I could still go back to LA, make some excuse and hookup with Jasmine again.
Mechanically, I shuffled across the gravel. Almost immediately the door popped open, “Welcome Gil! Glad you could come. Come in! Come in!”
Inside, it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust. I couldn’t really remember what Pop’s friend looked like, just that he was tall. He should be about sixty now. The same age Pop woulda been.
The guy standing here looked much older. You could almost see the lines of his skeleton under his emaciated bony face. His skin was patchy and shiny, like dried sea salt, with disturbing purple blotches around his neck and shoulders poking out above his button-down gray flannel. His tawny hair was short and wispy with streaks of gray, but he wasn’t bald like I’d heard many cancer patients were. He looked nothing like someone about to head off for a month of hiking. The only thing that betrayed any strength were his deeply sunken eyes, which sparkled with their own inner light.
Maybe like in every kung fu flick, this old geezer was really the hidden Master who kicks the brash young hero’s ass—but more likely I’d just end up changing his friggin’ diapers. Why the hell had he asked for me? I was the last person in the world he shoulda called.
“Do you want some tea?” he asked, his voice steady but raspy.
“No thanks. Ya got anythin’ cold? Maybe a beer or something?”
He eyed me strangely. “How about some water? Our well is pretty good here.” “Maybe later.”
“I see you have a bit of your father’s Irish accent.”
“My accent’s a total mess—all diluted by rural Ohio, LA, and Ma’s family—but yeah,
I’ve tried to keep a bit of the Irish flair. In part to honor Pop, and in part ’cause chicks really get into it.”
“You mean women,” he said scrutinizing me.
“Yeah, same difference.”
“Have a seat,” he said, indicating a heavy wooden chair by an antique kitchen table.
“I’ll be a moment.”
I remained standing, rocking from foot to foot.
He went into a small adjoining bedroom. Through the door I glimpsed row upon row
of pressed suit jackets hanging in clear plastic dry-cleaner bags in the open closet, behind a neatly made-up bed.
His place was like a small apartment. A tiled dining area and a small kitchen branched off from a larger beige-carpeted living room. An old Tiffany lamp stood in the corner. Everything was neat and organized. The place didn’t have that dreaded “old man smell,” rather it was scented vaguely like sandalwood.
All of the furniture pieces were dark Asian-style antiques. To one side of the living room was an old writing desk. A collection of pens and papers was neatly arranged on the top. Most prominent was a large wooden bookcase. The books were ordered by subject, then by author—like they might be in a library. Basho, Blake, Frost, Hesse, Kesey, Longfellow, and Tolstoy caught my eye—all authors Pop had collected, and a fair number I’d read too, back when I’d been into books. But unlike Pop, many seemed to be about China, titles like, The Complete Works of Lu Xun and Path of Beauty: A Study of Chinese Aesthetics.
A faded green backpack, two trekking poles, and a pair of worn brown leather boots sat carefully arranged by the door. His pack was the type with the metal frame on the outside, the kind Pop used to carry. They didn’t even sell ’em anymore at that outdoors store he’d sent me to.
His kitchen was neat and tidy with all the dishes and cups put away. The counters immaculate. And his small toaster and microwave unplugged, their cords draped over the tops.
Only the table was a bit messy, with several marked-up hiking maps spread out and a large yellow highlighter resting on top. On top of a small stack of books was History of the Sierra Nevada. Most of the others dealt with the Sierras in one way or another. Mixed in was a copy of Pop’s old favorite, Walden, by Henry David Thoreau. I’d tried reading it twice, but never really got into it.
Next to the maps was a dog-eared copy of Elizabeth Wenk’s guide to the John Muir Trail. I recognized it instantly ’cause it had arrived in the package he’d sent me, along with a long list of items to bring. He’d written that Wenk’s guide would be helpful in preparing, but honestly I’d never even had time to open it.
I checked the messages on my phone. Nothing. I wandered around his living room. A long, yellowed Chinese scroll painting of mountains dotted with tiny figures and small trees hung from one wall.
On another was a medium-sized drawing with a gold metal frame, breaking the Asian theme. It was a signed black-and-white drawing of two nudes on a large flat rock by some secluded pool along a forested riverbank. It looked a little like the cover art of a classic rock album, the lighting having a dreamy twilight quality. The trees and rocks seemed more real than the two figures, who were shadowy as if illuminated by moonlight. You could almost hear the water tumbling down the bubbling cascade in the foreground.
“My son got that for me a few months ago. It’s a signed lithograph from 1923,” the old man’s voice surprised me from behind.
“It’s really nice. Your son has good taste.”
“I’ll tell him that.”
“Say, sir, what shall I—what would you like me to call you?”
“Syd is fine.”
“OK, Syd, that works. Listen, I mean, are you sure you’re up for all this? Walking, what,
a hundred miles or something across the top of the Sierra?”
“Two hundred and twenty miles. And a third of that above ten-thousand feet,” he said levelly.
“Yeah, well I mean, maybe this isn’t the best idea? Your daughter is all worried and everything. Maybe we could just hang out here and talk or something? I mean, you look so thin and all.”
“It’s the new cancer diet,” he rasped, “it’s all the rage. Looks like you could afford to lose a few pounds yourself.” His eyes gestured toward my belly, which was pushing up from under my polo like a pregnant basketball.
“I’ve been tryin’ to lose weight, but you know, work and all.”
“Beers and all, more likely. Your mother said you’d lost your job.”
“Well, not exactly lost. Besides, the work there kinda sucked. As for the weight, my doctor told me to consider exercise, but only after I got in better shape.”
He chuckled.
“I almost forgot,” I said, “I brought a cooler! I left some room in it in case you had any drinks or stuff you wanted to keep cool on the ride up. I also brought some steaks—you know—that we can eat our first couple-a-nights out.”
“Steaks? You do know that we’re going backpacking?”
“Yeah, so I had ’em flash frozen and sealed in plastic to last longer. I figure we can cook ’em over the fire. I think they’ll keep for one, maybe two or even three nights. I also brought a pair of six-packs—in lightweight cans, of course. I got us Märzen, from this great microbrewery I know. I remember Pop saying you guys used to drink German beer together, right?”
“That was very thoughtful of you, but didn’t you read the guidebook I sent? We’re not allowed to make fires, other than camping stoves, and we have to pack out all our waste. It’s just not possible to bring cans of beer with us on a trip of this length. And grilling steaks would be like setting up signposts for the bears.”
He seemed to sense my disappointment. Pop had always brought along something special when we’d gone camping.
“Why don’t you leave the steaks and beer in my refrigerator? Then after we get back, we can have them to celebrate.”
“Sure, OK.” I went back to the car, lugged out the cooler, and began transferring its contents to his nearly empty fridge.
“Better leave the cooler here, too. Bears can almost smell the word Coleman. Did you pack all the stuff on the list I mailed you?”
“Pretty much. The REI in Santa Monica had almost everything. But I couldn’t fit in all the stuff I wanted to take, so I had to leave some back home.”
“Like what?” he asked, looking concerned.
“At first, I put everything into the pack, just to test it out. You know, fully loaded, like you said to do in your instructions. But it was way too heavy, so I had to dump a bunch of stuff, like my bath towel, pillow, and some other things. All stuff I guess we won’t really need—but now I think it’s just about right.”
“What’s your base weight?”
I glanced down at my gut. “I don’t know, two hundred and twenty, two hundred and thirty? I was planning to lose a bit before the trip, but I never really had the chance to start working out.”
He grinned. “I don’t mean
your weight, Gil. I meant, what does your pack and gear weigh without food or water?”
“I never exactly weighed it, but I guess without the food and water it would be around thirty pounds max—like you told me not to go over.”
“That’s good. That’s what you’re aiming for. It’s normal for beginners to overpack a bit the first time. That means fully loaded your pack should weigh forty-five to fifty pounds, which is a bit heavy, but not too bad. We can have a look at what you’ve brought tonight, but right now it’s a bit late and we should get going so we reach the park before dark.”
He guided me to Route 41, an old two-lane highway that wound between grassy fields and farmhouses up into the Sierra foothills. After we’d gotten outta Fresno he asked, “So other than our penchant for German beers, what else do you know about your dad and me?”
“Not much. I know that you and Pop were hiking buddies back when he worked at Berkeley, but that’s about all.”
“Your dad taught literature at Cal before becoming a high school principal in Ohio.” “I never understood why he gave up a job like that to work in some high school.” “Partially because he met your mother, partially because he didn’t have tenure, and partially because an administrative job paid better. He always regretted leaving the West Coast, but there’s a Chinese saying, You can’t gain something without giving up something else.”
“That’s what you taught, right? Chinese philosophy?”
“I taught everything from metaphysics to the Greek classics, but my specialty was Asian philosophy and literature, yes.”
“Ma said you know Chinese, Greek, and Latin. And just like Pop, you can quote whole passages by heart.”
He gazed off in reflection, probably missing Pop as much as I did.
“So, if you’re an expert in Asian philosophy,” I tried again, “then you’ve seen all the classic kung fu and samurai flicks, right? What did you think of Shogun Assassin?”
“I’m afraid I missed that one.”
“You really should check it out. I’m a big fan of manga, samurai flicks, and Chinese kung fu movies—you know—like Drunken Master and Enter the Dragon. What about Zatoichi? You musta seen that. You know, the blind samurai, right?”
“No, although I am familiar with Miyamoto Musashi.”
“You mean Hiroshi Inagaki’s trilogy about the village hick who eventually becomes a real samurai? That’s a classic!”
“No, I mean the book by the Japanese historical novelist Yoshikawa Eiji, but it sounds like your film is based on the same story. I’m sorry, martial arts and the Edo period weren’t my specialty. My research focused more on the works of ancient China.”
“You mean like Sun Tzu’s Art of War?”
“That’s a bit closer, yes.”
“What’s your spin on that? I’ve never read it, but most of the guys at the law firm I worked at said I should—that its principles can be applied to modern business tactics and all. It’s actually quoted a lot in martial arts novels and stuff, so I sorta get the gist.”
“What was your major? I’d heard you’d attended Northwestern University for two years before getting your paralegal certificate and moving out to LA. Your mother never told me the exact reason you’d dropped out. Was it because of your father’s accident?”
“At first, I majored in journalism, but after Pop died I switched to law—” there was no way I was getting into the rest of it, even Ma didn’t know the full story. “Listen, before I forget, Ma told me about your wife and all. She said to tell you she was sorry she didn’t make the funeral.”
He winced. “Thank you. Your mother had a lot to cope with back then. It couldn’t have been easy for her raising you on her own.”
The car hit a bump. I really had to do something about those shocks.
“What about you? Ma told me your cancer was under control, cured, or something. From what Cass said, your condition sounds pretty serious. Are you sure you’re up for all this? We can always go back.”
He sat staring at the glove compartment, the long empty lane stretching out ahead of us. “I suppose you’d better know the whole story.”
He looked at me, “A few months after Katrine, my wife, passed away, I began feeling tired. I was sleeping quite a bit, which is unusual for me, and I was getting these awful night sweats. My sheets would literally be soaked. Then I began developing these painful lumps under my arms and around my neck. At first, I thought I had a low-grade fever, or that it was depression over Katrine’s passing, or just normal aging and arthritis. But then I started getting these awful nose bleeds and purple blotches started appearing on my skin, so I went in for a physical.” His face looked pained.
“My doctor ordered some blood tests and then a biopsy. The result was that I have acute myelogenous leukemia, or simply AML, which is bad news for someone my age, because while many leukemias are quite manageable, the survival rate for AML is only about one in four.”
“That’s terrible. Leukemia is when your lymph nodes get infected, right?”
“No, that’s only a symptom. It’s really a cancer of the blood. Your bone marrow starts producing abnormal cells, which interfere with things like clotting and fighting off infection.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yes. I was quite depressed when I found out. Nevertheless, the doctors said that I had a strong immune system and a good constitution for my age. They wanted to try aggressive chemotherapy, so I agreed.” He swallowed, “Chemotherapy is about the worst experience you can imagine. They connect you up to an IV and the liquid burns as it goes in. At first, I didn’t have much of a reaction, but after my third treatment the nausea started, and then the diarrhea. Uncontrollable diarrhea.”
I shifted in my seat.
“Then my hair started falling out. At first, it was only strands, but soon entire clumps. I had to shave my head. My mouth became dry and swollen, and I was dizzy and disorientated. I couldn’t walk or cook or even read. I’ve never felt so helpless in all my life. Imagine not being able to read.”
For someone like him, that musta been hard. Pop had been the same way, always reading something. I’d been like that too—up until the accident.
“And those damn hospital televisions,” he continued. “On all the time. The guy in the bed next to me was an addict. Wouldn’t shut the damn thing off. They had such moronic programming. All game shows and soap operas.”
“Yeah, daytime TV really sucks.”
“Cass brought me some movies, but my head was swimming with the chemicals. It was hard to concentrate on anything for very long.”
The road wound and banked as we began to climb.
“How long did the chemo last?” It was better to let him ramble on than answer all sorts of questions about myself. If there was one thing I’d learned about old people, they never got tired of talking about their medical conditions.
“Most people can get all the doses in just two or three weeks, but because of my side effects, mine took almost two months. And afterward, I had to remain in the hospital for observation.”
“Sounds awful.”
“It was. A hospital is no place to get well in. It’s like an icy prison. The food is awful. All night the machines beep. There are announcements over the loudspeakers. And the nurses come and go measuring this and that.”
His face was flushed now. “They also sent me to a cancer support group. That was a complete waste of time.”
I knew exactly what he was talking about. Ma had insisted I go to one of those after Pop died. Everyone just sat around blubbering about their feelings. It was embarrassing, and I’d refused to go again.
“After the chemotherapy, I was weak and terribly thin. You may think I look thin now, but believe me, I looked like a wooden scarecrow. I could barely walk. Most of my muscles had atrophied. It took me over four weeks just to be able to use the toilet on my own. I can’t tell you how humiliating that is.”
He sighed and then continued. “It was around then that I moved down to Fresno. At first, it was just temporary so Cass could help take care of me. But later, when it became apparent that I wouldn’t be able to drive or even handle basic functions for some time, we sold the house in Berkeley and I moved down permanently. It was simpler that way. Cass was a great help. She handled most of the sale and the moving.”
“She’s really grown up a lot. I remember Sean too. How’s he doing?”
“He’s a pathologist on the East Coast now. I don’t see much of him, but we speak on the phone regularly. He flew out several times during my treatment and is doing well. He has a son too. They’re living close to DC.”
“You have great kids.”
He smiled warmly for the first time since I’d picked him up.
“After another month or so in Fresno, the worst of the side effects passed. My head stopped swimming. And I could read again. Even my hair started coming back. With Cass’s cooking and a lot of protein and exercise, I regained weight and muscle tone. Although my right knee is still weak, so we’re gonna have to watch that.”
“Wait, I don’t get it. Cass said you’re still sick, but Ma told me you were cured.”
“That’s the problem. I do feel better now. And things were going well after the chemotherapy. My oncologist said it looked like I would make it. Cass and I even went out for a special little dinner at Chez Panisse. But then in December, I went back for a follow-up and the doctor said my cancer had returned. He said he wasn’t sure when, perhaps in a few months, or maybe a year, it would get worse again, and when it did my prognosis wasn’t good.”
“So wait, that’s over six months ago—”
“Yes, and I’ve been getting worse. It’s harder to exercise. And a few of my symptoms have returned. The oncologists say that at this rate I have four, maybe five months left, which is why I need to hike the trail now.”
“Isn’t there something else the doctors can do?”
He stared out the side window, then looked back at me. “They wanted me to try radiation. They wanted to irradiate my whole body in order to kill off all my bone marrow. They wanted to inject my bones with fresh cells from one of my cousins and see if that would take.”
The only thing I knew about radiation was from The Hulk and X-Men, but in his case it was serious.
“They said I’d have about a one-in-five chance of recovery. But there would also be a chance that the radiation would kill me, or that I’d get some other cancer from the procedure. And I would need chemo again afterward. If I agreed, I’d be back in the hospital indefinitely.”
He fidgeted with his belt. “I refused. I told them I’d rather die at home or on the trail than to be a lab rat and die wasting away in some cold hospital bed, without dignity. I just couldn’t go back to that place.”
I stared at the long dividing line splitting the road ahead. This wasn’t at all like Ma had said. Why hadn’t I asked him about his condition over the phone? I’d thought by going on this trip I’d get a better understanding of Pop, maybe drop some weight, and get some leads on what to do next with my career—at least pick up a letter of recommendation or something. Instead, I was heading off into the mountains with a guy who was about to kick it of cancer and who needed serious treatment. No wonder Cass was all freaked out. This wasn’t gonna be a holiday. This was gonna be a nightmare. I knew nothing about cancer or hiking or medicine. I hadn’t even been there for Pop when he’d needed me—what could I do for this guy? But Ma had insisted that he’d specifically asked for me. Or had he? Cass had said he’d called other people too. The car went over a small rise, and my stomach sank.
He musta read what I was thinking ’cause of the way he was staring at me, his face choked-up with emotion, his eyes pleading. “The Chinese have a saying, Failure isn’t falling down, it’s refusing to get up.”
His words sounded like something blind old Master Po woulda told Grasshopper, David Carradine’s character in the old Kung Fu TV series.
We came to a small town and stopped to fill up and grab a bite at some lodge he knew. It was a nice dinner, and he insisted on paying. We didn’t talk much, but I watched him as he ate. He definitely packed an appetite. Maybe the doctors were wrong about him? Would this guy really be heading off into the woods if things were that bad? He was a professor, not some nutjob. I felt like Neo in The Matrix, having to choose between the red and blue pills.
Stopping for dinner turned out to be a mistake, ’cause when we finally entered the park, the ranger station was closed.
“This means we can’t camp at the trailhead,” he explained. Apparently, you needed a wilderness permit or a reservation to spend the night in Yosemite. “We’ll just have to find a motel room out around the eastern entrance.”
It was a long drive across the park, but we finally found vacancy at a dingy roadside motel. It was a sorry-looking gray metal affair that smelled like a truck stop, but it was ten thirty and anything would do.
After showering, Syd sat up in bed with his guidebook, while I walked the two chilly blocks along the highway that constituted the entire “town” of Lee Vining. I was looking for anyplace I might find a drink and clear my head. This whole thing was way more than I’d agreed to.
The streets were an empty assortment of darkened old tourist shops. The one restaurant with a bar had closed up around ten. This definitely wasn’t LA. Hands in my pockets, I wandered back toward the motel.
Maybe I could just go partway? We had to exit the woods at several spots to resupply. The first would be at a place called “Reds Meadow.” There’d be a road there. I could go with him up to that point, fake a sprained ankle or something, and then we’d have to go back. It would be enough time to find out about him and Pop and keep my promise to Ma without having to spend an entire month in the woods playing nursemaid.
When I reached the room, the lights were out, and he was snoring quietly. Lying down on my squeaky bed, I tried to sleep.
The Trail by Ethan Gallogly begins with Gil seriously contemplating whether or not he should embark on this journey through the wilderness with his father's friend Syd who is aged and cancer-stricken. Eventually, he resolves despite Syd’s daughter Cass’s discouragement in the pursuit of the John Muir Trail. They meet with Steve and debate over where the actual trail begins. Steve assures us that we will encounter much more amazing sites than the Vernal and Nevada Falls that were missed from Syd's decision to begin his trek of the trail from the Tuolumne Meadows.
Gil, the first-person narrator keeps the journey real and shares the frustrations of some children who must involuntarily accompany their parents on these hikes; “How much farther to the stupid falls? ” He also shares the difficulty involved in the mountain climbing aspects of the trail; “The trail wound over jumbled black stone down a steep descent to Helen Lake. In many places, Syd and I struggled with our footing, each of us narrowly avoiding twisting an ankle on several occasions.”
Gil and Syd trek not only to the breathtaking and popular spots of the John Muir Trail like Rainbow Falls, Muir Pass, Mount Spencer, Sapphire lake but to less famous but equally stupendous spots on the trail. The Trail tosses the reader into a virtual hike of this 28-mile trail. The reader immerses into the physical, the social, and spiritual landscape of the trail; “Families cooking hot dogs and marshmallows over fire pits. Crying babies. Elderly men with gobs of fishing gear. And more crying babies.” As we encounter the trails we feel Syd and Gil's exhaustion, exhilaration, and rejuvenation in the heights and valleys of their Yosemite Trail.
This book is ideally suited to young adults, there is a special appeal to male readers as the protagonists are all male. This narrative can surely be thoroughly enjoyable by female readers as well. This book is not recommended for children as it is splattered with lewd language. For potential readers, get your backpack ready and prepare for a fantastic journey of self-discovery.