How to Make Something Simple, Difficult

Via an intricate system of awesome public transit I was able to drop off the trail into Mammoth Lakes for a quick resupply. The first leg of the trip took me through Yosemite down to Mammoth ski resort. I was only slightly surprised to see snow still on the mountain. At the base of the hill I encountered both the late season skiers and snow-boarders, as well as the swagger mountain bikers who were shredding up the lower slopes. It was pretty cool to encounter new varieties of outdoor enthusiasts.
By that afternoon I was back up on the trail. By lunch the next day I caught up with Red Head, Double D, Green Mile and a couple of his friends who had come out to hike for the weekend. We sat on the shore of beautiful and iced over 1000 Island lake. That afternoon Red Head, Double D and I made our way up through a snowy field to Donohue Pass, reputed to be the last and easiest of the passes. We cowboyed on some rocks up on the pass and watched as the evening light bathed the long, lush green valley to our north. My two compadres, being a local Cali boy, related stories of ventures in the area from their childhood. Also being avid fishermen, they noted that the river was much higher than they had seen before. We slept happily under a blanket of stars and satellites. The next morning we took off at the bright and early hour of 10 am.
We shoe-skied down the initial slope and at the point where the snow bank became a cliff we decided it would be prudent to climb down the exposed rock field rather than maneuver the snow fields where the trail probably passed. The first 150 feet or so was a simple rock hop. Then it became a downward clamour. Then I suddenly realized I had made my way onto something of a cliff. I continued to carefully move between rocks, looking for hand and footholds. At one point I found myself on a sketchy section of rock where water ran over most of the surface. Again, fear and adrenaline made me shaky. I decided the next several yards would be doable without a pack. A large boulder, some 30 feet down seemed like a probable place for my pack to wait for me. I dropped it off my shoulders and rolled it toward the rock. It went exactly where I had meant for it. And then it kept going. I turned around from climbing down to see my pack against the backdrop of a blue sky; quite airborne. One of my poles was flying in one direction and my pack soared in another. A sense of horror threatened to overtake me but I was focused on getting myself down more safely than my pack. I would worry about that when I was on safe ground.
It was a literal rock climb for the next 150 feet. I was terrified. Hugging my body to the rock I would pick out a foothold but as I moved to step down the water trickle which my body had held up would gush down, drenching everything I was headed for. Finally I was on the last face above the snow field below. I was happy to see that Red Head had made it down safely. In order to safely make it down the final length I threw down the pole I had kept with me. As I came to the top of the snow bank I scanned the snowfield and saw my pack and one pole. My second pole had slid directly into an ice-cave at the base of the rocks. Red Head verbally guided me to the spot where it had disappeared and after some kicking and digging I got it out. I slid down the snow to my pack and Red Head. We sat, allowing the nervous shaking in my legs to subside. A few moments later Double D appeared from the snowy chute which ran alongside the rocks. The backs of his hands and his knees glowed a florescent orangish red. I took off my sunglasses and realized that his hands had been ground nearly to the meat. Having decided the rocks were dangerous he opted to glissade the snow and the icy stuff had torn his flesh up, much as a grater might have.
We sat there in the snow, thrilled to be alive and still functional, though somewhat nonplused by the decision making skills we had displayed at the top of the cliff. Fortunately my pack was whole and had suffered relatively little damage as compared to what might have happened. Granted the stays were warped, but it was still wearable. In fact, the stays had already been folding under themselves, digging into nerves in my back, causing my legs to go numb. The air-trip had more than corrected this, in fact, the back of the pack hardly came in contact with my back except at my hips. Double D displayed impressive resilience, rejecting most of our offers of help. Red Head suggested we could hurry on down to Tuolumne Meadows where D could tend to his wounds. "Nah, I still want to fish," D replied.

We quickly found the trail and were on our way down one of the most beautiful, lush valleys I have ever moved through (probably colored so wonderful by the proximity to serious danger that morning). We moved quickly and confidently over the next many miles. In the filth and familiarity with the mountains through which we had just passed, we found the south bound John Muir Trail aspirant hikers quite amusing as they stopped at small creeks to remove their boots and nervously tread through ankle deep water.
That afternoon we came in to Tuolumne Meadows camp store and mauwed down on hamburgers while comparing stories with the many other thru-hikers relaxing there. That evening the boys took me down to the river where I took my first shot at fishing in many years. I didn't catch anything but certainly came to appreciate the peace of the activity itself.
The next morning Green Mile caught up with us. Double D headed off to finish the John Muir Trail and conclude his 350 mile trip, the other three of us headed on along the PCT. We made camp in pretty little opening just before yet another river crossing.