Welcome to my world, I wanted to tell my wife and kids on the banks of Upper Cathedral Lake in Yosemite. This was their first backpacking trip, their first journey into the Sierra Nevada's backcountry, the magical realms where cars could not venture and most people would not. The dayhikers had departed for Tuolumne Meadows 4 miles downtrail. Now the lake was ours, and ours alone. The nylon of our tent flaps fluttered occasionally in the afternoon breeze, mimicking the sound of the water lapping the nearby lake shore. Camp squalor had ensued splendidly, with Nalgene Bottles and bear cannisters and clothes strewn about. I had lit the camp stove for dinner and the familiar hiss of its flames serenaded the oversized Sierran ants which marched through the the pine needle carpet of our camp.
Lydia read on a hot granite rock. She propped the Agony and the Ecstacy, the biography of Michelangelo, on her knees and turned the pages intently. Michelangelo wanted only to carve white, veiny marble she reminded me. He hate to paint. The boys jousted and fenced with branches of various diameters. Clare exited a tent. "Dad," she asked, "Where's the dirty laundry bag?" I laughed outloud. "Clare," I said, "you're backpacking. Everything is dirty. Your clothes. Your face. And especially your hands."
Sammy had lost two Power Bars somewhere between our car and our present backpacking site. We had searched his pack diligently without success. If the bars were still in the car then our car was at risk of attack from a black bear. The olfactory prowess of Sierran blackbears is unmatched. There were stories of bears ripping a Datsun to bits, because of an old piece of gum stuck under the driver's seat. I had thought of hiking all the way back down the trail to search the car, but decided against that. The mystery would not be solved till later...
