Posted: Tue May 30, 2006 6:59 am
The Wedding in the High Sierra May 30, 2006
Having most of my summers off for the past 20 years or so, these blessed months invariably found me wandering high among the Sierra, roaming freely on consecutive extended 10-day excursions. The quandary of re-stocking provisions, how and where, habitually presented itself; my solution – utilizing those twenty or so seasonal establishments located conveniently, always where the high trail meets the road. We all know most of them all too well: the Tuolumne store, the store at Rock Creek Lake, VVR, MTR, the tram up to Mammoth, the log cabin store at Mineral King, Florence Lake, etc – these all readily come to mind. There are many more – all are but seasonal oases: consider also places like Saddlebag, Bridgeport, Sabrina, and the Virginia Lake complex. Even though the prices are always outlandish, the selection barely adequate; for backpacking, besides food, all that was actually required was a hot shower, the use of a washing machine, hopefully a hot meal, a bar stool serving cold beer, and a safe place to set-up the tent nearby for a night or two. Anything else, any added adventure, I consider just an additional bonus.
Many people plan – meticulously, charting destinations and schedules, pre-packaging white 5-gallon buckets, mailing all ahead in advance, everything arranged to the nth detail - not I; that has never been my style. Instead, my sole strategy consisted in thoroughly packing up my trusty Shasta… stocked, strapping down my Trailmaster pole, making sure that my Visa came along, heading toward Tuolumne or wherever, finding my mountain legs, and trusting in the mountain gods to lead me where they wanted me to go next. Trust in fate and the next trip – wherever that may be – always takes care of itself.
Most of these fine afore-mentioned establishments stock all the required basics: Mac and cheese, Lipton rice packages, instant oatmeal, Crystal lite, fresh garlic, cooking oil, spices, white gas, fishing lures and flies, and a wide assortment of candy – what more do you really need? You are surely going to stop in and wander about any store located at any trailhead anyway…for the next leg of an upcoming trip, might as well do all the shopping up there. Fresh fruit and cold beer never seem to travel pre-packaged that well anyhow, besides there may be something right around a corner that you might just miss.
On a previous solo JMT adventure, tried the mail-ahead food drop approach, soon discovering that the worry, cost, and time spent sorting things out beforehand never rationalized the ease of just popping in somewhere and seeing what was readily available right there on site. When you figure in the cost of shipping, storage, and worry that all might get lost in transit, my way invariably computed cheaper in the end, especially when travelling solo as is my norm. Today, with the wide assortment of quality freeze-dried pre-packaged meals available everywhere, the eagerness of those operating these establishments to select and stock what successfully sells, and the ability to always trade fresh trout for whatever was missing…well, let us just say that I seldom go hungry on any trail. I firmly believe in being friendly, interacting with the locals, smiling a lot, and helping wherever one can…these are the desired traits of my kind of dirt-bag backpacker.
This solo backpacking tale begins on a Thursday, late June, this day finding me freshly showered and clean-shaven, sitting on a well-used barstool just a few paces off 60 hard miles of the JMT, hot turkey sandwich, cold Budweiser, and Vin Scully announcing the Dodger game on the antique TV…all high above the bar in an intentionally unnamed Sierra location. There were four other stools available; one soon occupied by a Father O’Malley, a Catholic priest on weekends and a hard-working logger during the week – he was drinking Jack Daniels - neat. Behind the bar, Richard, the owner-operator of the complex, continuously regaled us with humorous anecdotes of his summer Sierra life including stories about his misguided and ungrateful children, his army days, his numerous overseas adventures, and whatever else happened to come to mind at the moment.
I told them about my past, tending bar in New Orleans, my time working as a Wine Stewart on the Mississippi Queen, (a giant tourist steamship running along the big muddy), being a Butler at Harrah’s Lake Tahoe 16th floor. As we drank on, I mentioned the art of tableside flambé and other fine-dining chores for the affluent of Palm Springs’ mega-rich, and my now being a high school teacher. Father O’Malley, now warming to the occasion, (ordered still another Jack…man, that priest could do shots…), enlightened us about his days elk hunting, the perils of the logging business, the hypocrisy of being a priest in today’s Catholic church, and lastly, about an upcoming wedding that he was performing right here at the lake in a day or two. Once he started drinking and talking…that priest could party with the best.
The ball game went into extra innings, we bought each other rounds; it was one of those slow, sultry afternoons where we spent most of it laughing, becoming friends, and generally just shooting the chit among life’s equals – the Sierra has a strange way of bringing total strangers together quickly. As evening approached, Richard pulled me aside and asked me how long I was staying here, and since I obviously knew bartending and food service, would I perhaps be interested in helping out at the upcoming wedding festivities. I told him I was backpacking the Muir, pausing here briefly…intending only to re-stock, but would consider it an honor to assist him, for a small trade… perhaps in food supplies for my next trip… (I bet you were wondering how this all tied together).
Richard mentioned that there was a rehearsal dinner scheduled the next night, and, my job would be assisting in serving, and on Saturday afternoon was the wedding itself, where I would bar-tend. He said that a week’s packaged food from the store would be mine for providing the much-needed help, but he also made a point of warning me that these folk might be a little rough around the edges. A bit puzzled but intrigued, I still agreed; we shook hands and all did one final shot before retiring… back to my tent - home.
The next day arriving on station about noon, (slightly hurting if you get my drift), Richard supplied me with a freshly starched white kitchen smock to wear, (with my hiking boots…it was either that or my Keen sandals), and he pointed me in the direction of a nearby dilapidated banquet room where they planned the pre-ceremony dinner. After quickly meeting the cook and checking supplies, went to work…years of past restaurant experience telling me well what to do next...FYI, very comfortable in this type of environment.
Rather than give you a minute-by-minute run down, suffice to say, let me relate some of the major highlights. The priest arrived first shod in logging boots, driving up in a NUCO L, front-end loader tractor (you know… the one with the dented 60-inch bucket). Next, the bride and groom came; families in tow…they were a large family too. When I say large, the bride weighed in about 400 pounds, a pretty woman, young, blond, smiling all the time; her name was Joyce. The soon-to-be husband, John, marine haircut – short and tight – he slightly outweighed the bride, and he was the smallest of the rest of the four brothers, all present now and all close at hand – (in truth, it was actually a demonstrably butt-ugly family).
The evening’s dinner, grandly presided over by Father O’Malley, went as well as expected; in attendance were perhaps 40 guests present altogether – we served spaghetti… with world-class flair. The only unexpected hick-up in the entire evening occurred when the bride announced that one of the brothers, (the one missing a front tooth), would not be allowed in the wedding party photo, as his dental gap would undoubtedly spoil the upcoming wedding pictures – (fat chance that). Apparently, he did not take to this news too well and he consequently stormed out, swearing up a blue streak, squealing his bald tires, throwing up a cloud of rocks and pebbles, peeling out in an old rusted Ram Charger - (Starting to get the picture?).
On a side note, my waiter duties precluded my missing the majority of the nuptial discussions and most of the wedding instructions themselves; I do know Father O’Malley drank his way through the entire evening…spouting both Latin and lumberjack-ese in equal proportions, swearing along too. He was always totally in charge though – the guests dutifully instructed; they all apparently left happy, all seemingly understanding their specific duties at the upcoming gala soiree.
The wedding day arrived, cool and clear, brisk and bracing; Richard set up the wedding station at the end of a short wooden pier, at the end of a gravel dirt path, looking over a glass-smooth, azure-blue, 8000-foot, alpine lake – a bit of Sierra magic – not a bad scene altogether. On the pier itself, he solidly positioned an old wooden rowboat…center stage…sturdily propped up…extra bracing. Here was obviously the designated place for the bride and groom to exchange their vows. The groom arrived first, clad in a traditional black tuxedo; unfortunately, obviously unable to find a formal jacket that fit him correctly, he popped off a few lower buttons, belly hanging out noticeably as he waited nervously near the makeshift altar.
The bridesmaids pranced up next; all wearing something billowy, in lavender and green – ghastly, followed closely by the blushing bride (... she might have been in a bit of a hurry though, as she literally sprinted up the gravel driveway, towing her obviously relieved dad along closely behind her). She was a radiant picture, clad in a low cut, white-satin dress with the obviously swollen-with-pride dad now adorned in a tuxedo… (Closely behind, in hammerlock tow). After the traditional entrance, (FYI, I did not realize that there was that much white silk available in all of California), both the bride and groom somehow managed to climb into the boat, facing forward …towards the lake, and the priest, after a few choice introductory words (and a perfunctory shot), he handed them each one oar. Father O’Malley brilliantly presided over the rest of the entire wedding as a metaphor – the oars symbolizing the necessity of each pulling together blindly as they headed across the figurative lake of married life – obviously, he had done this before…quite effectively too.
The nuptials over, now went to work behind a well-stocked outside bar – ready, located close to the dock; beer and tequila were the main orders of the day….and of course a few bottles of Jack. The bridal party came over first, doing regular and continuing shots of Patron Anejo with Budweiser chasers, (just the perfect choice of libations for a hot afternoon event… at altitude…God help them later). The subsequent lakeside reception party came off fairly well; it got only a little out of hand when at one point a couple of the groom’s attendants got into a boisterous fight with one of the larger bride's maids, rolling around noisily in the dirt…lots of shoving and shouting, but few actual punches thrown…much akin to a baseball rhubarb… no harm, no foul. Some family members decided it was then time to decorate the honeymoon car…you know…clever soaped witticisms …tying on tin cans…that sort of thing. It was all well-intentioned except for the fact that they somehow completely picked the wrong car to decorate… and later, an unknown angler, off on the lake fishing for the day, joined the party… wondering what the hell was going on with his automobile. We quickly smoothed him over with a few quick rounds/shots… last seen later; spotted, still wearing his fishing ensemble, doing a respectable fox trot with the bride’s mother. (You had to be there to appreciate the moment.)
The initial solo dance of the bride and groom came next, closely resembling the start of an ancient Sumo wrestling bout, each one only barely able to reach the other’s shoulders… a tender and loving display nonetheless. Following that spectacle was the traditional cake-cutting ceremony, complete with cake in the face, and afterward, the best man’s toast…well; maybe we should just leave that part better unreported, as most of what followed was far too crude to repeat here anyway. Lastly it was time for the group celebratory wedding picture…now drunk, the bride relented, allowing the afore-described bucktooth brother to join in and be included in the Kodak moment.
Needless to say, this was the most unique wedding ever that anyone had the pleasure of attending anywhere. As the party wound down, half of the wedding guests changed into fishing clothes… the other half did not bother as most wore jeans. Anyway, nearly everyone in attendance decided to grab their poles and tackle boxes, and either rent some boats, or just put theirs into the water, and engage in some drunken evening fishing …the evening rise…finally bringing to a close the wedding festivities that day at the lake.
On a side note, somewhere along the line, managed to fill my nalgene bottle with Grand Mariner - (for medicinal purposes only), intended for my next days upcoming continuing backpacking excursion. The next morning early, went to the small grocery store, finding Richard had left for me a $75 credit for supplies, just enough to restock my Bearikade. That done, the chili-red Shasta packed up again…snug,we ran into each other outside… he thanked me profusely for all my professional help, and lastly, in passing, he mentioned again, how he had indeed warned me about the guests beforehand…I now understood. We paused, looked in each other’s eyes, shook hands, and then laughed heartedly. Soon enough, the morning ferry, and once again hiking away on the trail alone, solo climbing out of the valley towards some distant lofty High Sierra pass…the Muir.
In retrospect, the wedding was something unforgettable; it was indeed different. More than that though, this experience reinforced my philosophy of trusting in karma, taking what was available, and rolling with it. Sure, when going for a re-supply stash, you can do it all beforehand – the traditional way. There is merit in covering all contingencies, especially when going with a large group or in a hurry, as many of us are want to be in these days. However, much like living in the city and never knowing your next-door neighbors, by remaining isolated you can easily miss the considerable local flavor found near at hand. By being flexible, you invite the indefinite, and can profit considerably from the unknown. It only cost me two trail days, but what I gained was immeasurable: meeting Father O’Malley, Richard, and all the other gala festivities…and the wedding in the High Sierra.
Another solo hiking adventure … by markskor
Having most of my summers off for the past 20 years or so, these blessed months invariably found me wandering high among the Sierra, roaming freely on consecutive extended 10-day excursions. The quandary of re-stocking provisions, how and where, habitually presented itself; my solution – utilizing those twenty or so seasonal establishments located conveniently, always where the high trail meets the road. We all know most of them all too well: the Tuolumne store, the store at Rock Creek Lake, VVR, MTR, the tram up to Mammoth, the log cabin store at Mineral King, Florence Lake, etc – these all readily come to mind. There are many more – all are but seasonal oases: consider also places like Saddlebag, Bridgeport, Sabrina, and the Virginia Lake complex. Even though the prices are always outlandish, the selection barely adequate; for backpacking, besides food, all that was actually required was a hot shower, the use of a washing machine, hopefully a hot meal, a bar stool serving cold beer, and a safe place to set-up the tent nearby for a night or two. Anything else, any added adventure, I consider just an additional bonus.
Many people plan – meticulously, charting destinations and schedules, pre-packaging white 5-gallon buckets, mailing all ahead in advance, everything arranged to the nth detail - not I; that has never been my style. Instead, my sole strategy consisted in thoroughly packing up my trusty Shasta… stocked, strapping down my Trailmaster pole, making sure that my Visa came along, heading toward Tuolumne or wherever, finding my mountain legs, and trusting in the mountain gods to lead me where they wanted me to go next. Trust in fate and the next trip – wherever that may be – always takes care of itself.
Most of these fine afore-mentioned establishments stock all the required basics: Mac and cheese, Lipton rice packages, instant oatmeal, Crystal lite, fresh garlic, cooking oil, spices, white gas, fishing lures and flies, and a wide assortment of candy – what more do you really need? You are surely going to stop in and wander about any store located at any trailhead anyway…for the next leg of an upcoming trip, might as well do all the shopping up there. Fresh fruit and cold beer never seem to travel pre-packaged that well anyhow, besides there may be something right around a corner that you might just miss.
On a previous solo JMT adventure, tried the mail-ahead food drop approach, soon discovering that the worry, cost, and time spent sorting things out beforehand never rationalized the ease of just popping in somewhere and seeing what was readily available right there on site. When you figure in the cost of shipping, storage, and worry that all might get lost in transit, my way invariably computed cheaper in the end, especially when travelling solo as is my norm. Today, with the wide assortment of quality freeze-dried pre-packaged meals available everywhere, the eagerness of those operating these establishments to select and stock what successfully sells, and the ability to always trade fresh trout for whatever was missing…well, let us just say that I seldom go hungry on any trail. I firmly believe in being friendly, interacting with the locals, smiling a lot, and helping wherever one can…these are the desired traits of my kind of dirt-bag backpacker.
This solo backpacking tale begins on a Thursday, late June, this day finding me freshly showered and clean-shaven, sitting on a well-used barstool just a few paces off 60 hard miles of the JMT, hot turkey sandwich, cold Budweiser, and Vin Scully announcing the Dodger game on the antique TV…all high above the bar in an intentionally unnamed Sierra location. There were four other stools available; one soon occupied by a Father O’Malley, a Catholic priest on weekends and a hard-working logger during the week – he was drinking Jack Daniels - neat. Behind the bar, Richard, the owner-operator of the complex, continuously regaled us with humorous anecdotes of his summer Sierra life including stories about his misguided and ungrateful children, his army days, his numerous overseas adventures, and whatever else happened to come to mind at the moment.
I told them about my past, tending bar in New Orleans, my time working as a Wine Stewart on the Mississippi Queen, (a giant tourist steamship running along the big muddy), being a Butler at Harrah’s Lake Tahoe 16th floor. As we drank on, I mentioned the art of tableside flambé and other fine-dining chores for the affluent of Palm Springs’ mega-rich, and my now being a high school teacher. Father O’Malley, now warming to the occasion, (ordered still another Jack…man, that priest could do shots…), enlightened us about his days elk hunting, the perils of the logging business, the hypocrisy of being a priest in today’s Catholic church, and lastly, about an upcoming wedding that he was performing right here at the lake in a day or two. Once he started drinking and talking…that priest could party with the best.
The ball game went into extra innings, we bought each other rounds; it was one of those slow, sultry afternoons where we spent most of it laughing, becoming friends, and generally just shooting the chit among life’s equals – the Sierra has a strange way of bringing total strangers together quickly. As evening approached, Richard pulled me aside and asked me how long I was staying here, and since I obviously knew bartending and food service, would I perhaps be interested in helping out at the upcoming wedding festivities. I told him I was backpacking the Muir, pausing here briefly…intending only to re-stock, but would consider it an honor to assist him, for a small trade… perhaps in food supplies for my next trip… (I bet you were wondering how this all tied together).
Richard mentioned that there was a rehearsal dinner scheduled the next night, and, my job would be assisting in serving, and on Saturday afternoon was the wedding itself, where I would bar-tend. He said that a week’s packaged food from the store would be mine for providing the much-needed help, but he also made a point of warning me that these folk might be a little rough around the edges. A bit puzzled but intrigued, I still agreed; we shook hands and all did one final shot before retiring… back to my tent - home.
The next day arriving on station about noon, (slightly hurting if you get my drift), Richard supplied me with a freshly starched white kitchen smock to wear, (with my hiking boots…it was either that or my Keen sandals), and he pointed me in the direction of a nearby dilapidated banquet room where they planned the pre-ceremony dinner. After quickly meeting the cook and checking supplies, went to work…years of past restaurant experience telling me well what to do next...FYI, very comfortable in this type of environment.
Rather than give you a minute-by-minute run down, suffice to say, let me relate some of the major highlights. The priest arrived first shod in logging boots, driving up in a NUCO L, front-end loader tractor (you know… the one with the dented 60-inch bucket). Next, the bride and groom came; families in tow…they were a large family too. When I say large, the bride weighed in about 400 pounds, a pretty woman, young, blond, smiling all the time; her name was Joyce. The soon-to-be husband, John, marine haircut – short and tight – he slightly outweighed the bride, and he was the smallest of the rest of the four brothers, all present now and all close at hand – (in truth, it was actually a demonstrably butt-ugly family).
The evening’s dinner, grandly presided over by Father O’Malley, went as well as expected; in attendance were perhaps 40 guests present altogether – we served spaghetti… with world-class flair. The only unexpected hick-up in the entire evening occurred when the bride announced that one of the brothers, (the one missing a front tooth), would not be allowed in the wedding party photo, as his dental gap would undoubtedly spoil the upcoming wedding pictures – (fat chance that). Apparently, he did not take to this news too well and he consequently stormed out, swearing up a blue streak, squealing his bald tires, throwing up a cloud of rocks and pebbles, peeling out in an old rusted Ram Charger - (Starting to get the picture?).
On a side note, my waiter duties precluded my missing the majority of the nuptial discussions and most of the wedding instructions themselves; I do know Father O’Malley drank his way through the entire evening…spouting both Latin and lumberjack-ese in equal proportions, swearing along too. He was always totally in charge though – the guests dutifully instructed; they all apparently left happy, all seemingly understanding their specific duties at the upcoming gala soiree.
The wedding day arrived, cool and clear, brisk and bracing; Richard set up the wedding station at the end of a short wooden pier, at the end of a gravel dirt path, looking over a glass-smooth, azure-blue, 8000-foot, alpine lake – a bit of Sierra magic – not a bad scene altogether. On the pier itself, he solidly positioned an old wooden rowboat…center stage…sturdily propped up…extra bracing. Here was obviously the designated place for the bride and groom to exchange their vows. The groom arrived first, clad in a traditional black tuxedo; unfortunately, obviously unable to find a formal jacket that fit him correctly, he popped off a few lower buttons, belly hanging out noticeably as he waited nervously near the makeshift altar.
The bridesmaids pranced up next; all wearing something billowy, in lavender and green – ghastly, followed closely by the blushing bride (... she might have been in a bit of a hurry though, as she literally sprinted up the gravel driveway, towing her obviously relieved dad along closely behind her). She was a radiant picture, clad in a low cut, white-satin dress with the obviously swollen-with-pride dad now adorned in a tuxedo… (Closely behind, in hammerlock tow). After the traditional entrance, (FYI, I did not realize that there was that much white silk available in all of California), both the bride and groom somehow managed to climb into the boat, facing forward …towards the lake, and the priest, after a few choice introductory words (and a perfunctory shot), he handed them each one oar. Father O’Malley brilliantly presided over the rest of the entire wedding as a metaphor – the oars symbolizing the necessity of each pulling together blindly as they headed across the figurative lake of married life – obviously, he had done this before…quite effectively too.
The nuptials over, now went to work behind a well-stocked outside bar – ready, located close to the dock; beer and tequila were the main orders of the day….and of course a few bottles of Jack. The bridal party came over first, doing regular and continuing shots of Patron Anejo with Budweiser chasers, (just the perfect choice of libations for a hot afternoon event… at altitude…God help them later). The subsequent lakeside reception party came off fairly well; it got only a little out of hand when at one point a couple of the groom’s attendants got into a boisterous fight with one of the larger bride's maids, rolling around noisily in the dirt…lots of shoving and shouting, but few actual punches thrown…much akin to a baseball rhubarb… no harm, no foul. Some family members decided it was then time to decorate the honeymoon car…you know…clever soaped witticisms …tying on tin cans…that sort of thing. It was all well-intentioned except for the fact that they somehow completely picked the wrong car to decorate… and later, an unknown angler, off on the lake fishing for the day, joined the party… wondering what the hell was going on with his automobile. We quickly smoothed him over with a few quick rounds/shots… last seen later; spotted, still wearing his fishing ensemble, doing a respectable fox trot with the bride’s mother. (You had to be there to appreciate the moment.)
The initial solo dance of the bride and groom came next, closely resembling the start of an ancient Sumo wrestling bout, each one only barely able to reach the other’s shoulders… a tender and loving display nonetheless. Following that spectacle was the traditional cake-cutting ceremony, complete with cake in the face, and afterward, the best man’s toast…well; maybe we should just leave that part better unreported, as most of what followed was far too crude to repeat here anyway. Lastly it was time for the group celebratory wedding picture…now drunk, the bride relented, allowing the afore-described bucktooth brother to join in and be included in the Kodak moment.
Needless to say, this was the most unique wedding ever that anyone had the pleasure of attending anywhere. As the party wound down, half of the wedding guests changed into fishing clothes… the other half did not bother as most wore jeans. Anyway, nearly everyone in attendance decided to grab their poles and tackle boxes, and either rent some boats, or just put theirs into the water, and engage in some drunken evening fishing …the evening rise…finally bringing to a close the wedding festivities that day at the lake.
On a side note, somewhere along the line, managed to fill my nalgene bottle with Grand Mariner - (for medicinal purposes only), intended for my next days upcoming continuing backpacking excursion. The next morning early, went to the small grocery store, finding Richard had left for me a $75 credit for supplies, just enough to restock my Bearikade. That done, the chili-red Shasta packed up again…snug,we ran into each other outside… he thanked me profusely for all my professional help, and lastly, in passing, he mentioned again, how he had indeed warned me about the guests beforehand…I now understood. We paused, looked in each other’s eyes, shook hands, and then laughed heartedly. Soon enough, the morning ferry, and once again hiking away on the trail alone, solo climbing out of the valley towards some distant lofty High Sierra pass…the Muir.
In retrospect, the wedding was something unforgettable; it was indeed different. More than that though, this experience reinforced my philosophy of trusting in karma, taking what was available, and rolling with it. Sure, when going for a re-supply stash, you can do it all beforehand – the traditional way. There is merit in covering all contingencies, especially when going with a large group or in a hurry, as many of us are want to be in these days. However, much like living in the city and never knowing your next-door neighbors, by remaining isolated you can easily miss the considerable local flavor found near at hand. By being flexible, you invite the indefinite, and can profit considerably from the unknown. It only cost me two trail days, but what I gained was immeasurable: meeting Father O’Malley, Richard, and all the other gala festivities…and the wedding in the High Sierra.
Another solo hiking adventure … by markskor