Goodnight, Moon

July 22

Last night passed uneventfully as far as I was concerned—no return of motorcycles—but Nick heard another car cruise silently past us toward the rear of the campground, headlights off, at around 2:00 a.m., and then back out. 

After more bacon and eggs this morning, we departed for our final hike. We’d consulted a detailed map of the region and spotted the five-mile round-trip trail to Adams Lake. It begins near the end of a 20-mile long mostly-dirt road that cuts into the heart of the Trinity Alps wilderness. One guidebook described the walk as “easy” and, as I recall, ideal for young children, and the little squiggly line on paper made it look innocuous, so off we went. 

As on previous days, Nick did all the driving, his wonderful red Subaru Forester tackling the bumpy roads without batting an eye.

The path started up through an evergreen forest whose floor was littered with dead twigs and branches that rolled as I stepped on them, nearly sending me to the ground time and again. Abundant rocks tripped me, too. Up and relentlessly up we climbed. Toward the top, the route sometimes became faint to invisible. Can you see the trail?

We managed not to get lost, and two hours later, panting, we reached Adams Lake where we had a quick lunch, and one of us (not I) took a little dip.

Crossing the creek on the way down, I lost my balance and gracefully plunged into a stand of alder bushes on the other side, gouging my arm on a branch: my only battle scar.

Here’s my travel companion during a pause in our journey down the hill.

By the time we got back to the car, my legs wobbled as though they were rubber bands. According to my phone app, we’d covered 5.3 miles and ascended 1,645 feet in the first half of that. The guidebook claims it’s only a 1,400-foot elevation gain. I choose to believe the higher number.

We drove a little further on to the very end of the densely forested road and decided it was not a good place to be in the likely event of a wildfire, with just one way out: potholed and narrow.

A last detour took us to a tucked-away swimming hole in the Trinity River, populated by locals. The dip was refreshing after our climb in the near-100-degree heat, but my beloved watch (my late father’s) didn’t appreciate my having forgotten to remove it before I submerged. Not sure it’ll recover.

Back at the camp we saw no sign of Spencer or his associates, or anyone else for that matter, and thus enjoyed a late dinner in peace. Yahtzee was the evening’s diversion, followed by gazing at the nearly full moon before retiring. Since nary a biker appeared and Kinky Penis Man never made himself known, I felt secure enough to re-open the windows in my overheated tent.