California Dreaming

It’s here: the first day of the rolling lottery for John Muir Trail permits. Getting a southbound permit is tricky business, but with any luck, come August I will temporarily halt my life in the Northeast and get on a plane to California, stuff a huge awkward plastic container full of CLIF bars and freeze-dried chicken into my pack, forego the hammock for #tentlife, and hope I can make it to Mt. Whitney.

I’ve been neglecting hiking, and I’ve only gone out two or three times since my Labor Day adventures. I’m in significantly worse shape than I was two years ago, and winter doesn’t help. But soon enough, the snow will melt, and my local park will reopen. And (with more luck) I’ll soon be moving to a place that’s more walkable, safer and easier to night-run, and won’t make me feel like I’m endlessly waiting for something to happen, like I do in my suburban apartment. I miss walking to grocery stores and not having to worry about inattentive SUV drivers who think the stop signs at the ends of exit ramps don’t apply to them. I miss walking the dog somewhere other than a housing development, and the spontaneous conversations with complete strangers.

But this, and California, is coming. I’ll have my backpack filled for the trail when I rent the U-Haul to move, and I’ll be on the trail possibly five days later, the remaining unopened boxes of possessions in the new apartment the furthest thing from my mind as I climb up Half Dome. If I have to go northbound I’ll do that instead, pulling myself up the highest elevation I’ve ever climbed and trying to think ahead to the easy path I’ll have for my last week. However it happens, I’m determined to do all I can to get to California this year.

But first, probably a few lunges and squats would be good…