|Views of smoke|
At sunset we have two miles left to hike-half of that up hill. Portrait was reading to me as we hiked because I was miserable and slow and he was bored trailing along behind me (and at heart he is a Fastie).
|A broken bridge upstream from the new bridge|
|Another broken bridge, but usable|
As we hike into dusk my head throbs with the pressure not to cry. Portrait remarks how lovely the area is and I say nothing. Each time I catch a glimpse of the trail winding its way upward I want to sit down and close my eyes and just stay there.
We pass some snow at what I think is the top of the climb-many miles ago it seems that Portrait told me I had only .6 left to climb. It is not the top and I finally stop, dejected next to a flat sandy campsite that I know I can't have. It is beautiful here: sparse trees, snow patches cling in depressions, the huckleberry bushes are that lovely shade of red, the view of mountains around us is impressive, and above it all the moon is a thumb nail crescent in the darkening sky. When Portrait asks if I want to stay there I burst into tears while saying I want to go home. But of course I don't want to go home. I want to enjoy hiking again. I want to have fun, I want to be wowed by the views, and happy at the end of the day and to look forward to the next day.