October 6, 2013

• Does it Get Any Better Than This?!

  My bmbf (best mountain bike friend), Sally, announced that she wasn't sure she'd be able to ride this weekend as she, her sister, and her daughter were going to Lone Pine to hike the Whitney Portal Trail on Saturday. I promptly invited myself to go along. I offered to make sandwiches for the trip to ensure my welcome.

  I'm known for my culinary persnickedyness among my friends so this is generally a card I use when inveigling an invitation to outings where I might be considered a liability. In this group of extremely fit women, my sixty-year-old, ski-abused knees, are definitely a liability on a steep hike. So, I outlined the proposed menu when I suggested that I was interested in filling the fourth bunk.

  Sandwiches of homemade, cracked wheat bread; grass-fed, sharp cheddar cheese from New Zealand; with thinly sliced home-grown, heirloom tomatoes; cucumbers; sweet, red peppers; crisp romaine lettuce; and jalapeno ranch dressing constituted the main course. Orzo salad with Greek olives and a little bit of anything crunchy I had in the fridge and tortilla chips with spicy guacamole were the side dishes. I picked a bag of super ripe Valencia oranges and squeezed them into a couple of quarts of juice just before departure. A nice bottle of Bogle red wine and some dark chocolate covered, peanut butter/caramel truffles completed my meal-on-the-go. For the hike, I made a loaf of dark rye bread to make peanut butter, banana, and lemon curd sandwiches. My welcome was secured.

  We arrived at the Whitney Portal Hostel just after 8:00 P.M., checked in, and poured the wine. Let the festivities begin! Our motley crew consisted of: Sally, whom you already know as Mountain Bike Momma, biker extraordinaire; her sister, Lynn, a woman of formidable fitness and youth (she's in her early forties), and Sally's daughter, Jordan, a nubile youngster of sixteen. Oh, and yes, myself, a slightly daft, mature woman, who still hasn't even begun to grasp the reality of the limitations of her aging body.

  By ten o'clock, we were all snuggled into our bunk beds. Sally, began her gentle sleep breathing almost before we had stopped talking. Jordy, too fell into slumber with the effortlessness of her youth. Lynn lay quietly, I read by the unobtrusive light of my book light, until we both fell into the light pre-sleep state that is too easily disrupted by minor disturbances like trucks passing below our open window on the highway. Lynn tossed & turned on her lumpy & noisy mattress in the bunk above me until around three A.M. when we both finally succumbed to sleep.
  A view from our room shows the highway directly below (395) and brooding over the valley, the jagged Sierra Nevadas.
  

  There's a secret, little breakfast spot called the Alabama Hills Cafe that I discovered when my sister, Babs, and her daughter, Tuesday and I came through this way from Death Valley, where they are as persnickety about their food as I am.
  
  The honey-wheat pancake with bananas & blueberries was so perfect that the butter & syrup that accompanied it went back to the kitchen untouched.

  The drive to the trail head is just about as breathtaking as the trail itself. The road is carved into the side of the mountain (no guard rail), and climbs so quickly that one gets the feeling of being in a small plane. I was so engrossed in hanging my head out of the window to get the full effect that I neglected to take any photos.

  Anarchy reigned at the trail head. The federal government, paralyzed by the arbitrary debt ceiling, was unable to provide park rangers to keep the unruly hikers and sightseers in line. Hikers parked in the spaces designated "picnic area parking only" with utter disregard for law and order. On the trail, there was evidence of hikers' urination closer to the trail than the requisite 100' away. A scofflaw by nature, I reveled in the freedom from oppression. I flagrantly peed within TWENTY-FIVE feet of the trail, not once but several times.

  The Whitney Portal Trail is one of the most beautiful trails of the National Forest system. It switchbacks up a narrow canyon with a snow-fed stream that hurtles down enormous slabs of granite.
  
  Mostly unseen, the stream can be heard whenever the trail cuts back into the canyon. This time of year there isn't much runoff so the stream crossings were easy enough.
  
  When we grew jaded by the spectacular natural scenery, there were the many glorious specimens of the human race, mostly of the male gender. Outdoor people tend to be fit, tanned, and friendly. The young men we encountered kindly offered to snap a photo of all four of us when they saw us by the side of the trail posing at photo opportunities. One silver-tongued devil complimented our lovely smiles as he snapped several photos for us. Clearly, having a pubescent female in the group as bait was effective.

  We were sitting at the side of the trail taking a break when two men came down the trail. The one in front had a VERY nicely developed body and startlingly blue eyes. We all agreed that we could overlook his tattoo even before he spoke to us in a heart-melting Australian accent. He commented on what a beautiful trail this was and we all stumbled over ourselves agreeing. When he asked, "Does it get any better than this?", we all four burst into giggles assuring him that it certainly did not. We were all laughing at our shared appreciation of male pulchritude long after he disappeared down the trail.
  

  • 11:34 pm
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