Peter's Primacy

North Guard Peak Ridge

from Sphinx Lakes

Clearing Storm

Kings Canyon National Park

On that afternoon in July, 1984 a lazy, hesitant rain fell and soaked through my equipment and dampened my resolve as I set up camp in Little Pete Meadows. It was still and cheerless. I managed to sweat in the mugginess while setting up my 1970s White Stag tent (which my dad had purchased on sale at Long's for $19.99). The ground was mushy, like a bowl of unfinished Raisin Bran left on the kitchen counter on a Saturday afternoon. Glowering, pregnant, misty clouds, like the ones in the novels by Charles Dickens, hung above the cliff faces. I smiled, though. This was like that bumper sticker I often saw on pick-up trucks: The worse day of fishing is better than the best day of work.

Into the afternoon I hunkered down in my tent while studying maps. I also had a pocket New Testament with the words of Christ in red. However, because the tent fabric was red, a dull reddish hue filled the tent, making it impossible to see the words of Christ. This made for interesting reading and reflection. Suddenly, Peter seemed to be a rather chatty fellow who did all the talking. That Jesus, though, He was a great listener!

In the evening, while the rain continued to fall, I ventured from the tent and boiled water for my Top Ramen. I emptied the "flavor packet" into the noodles and licked the inside of the packet, trying to eek every extra calorie out of my dwindling food supply. A nearby backpacker strolled over to join me. He was a bearded, Muiresque, middle-aged man with steely blue eyes and deep wrinkles etching his face like contour lines. His name was Bill.

Bill was a Viet Nam vet. He said he was spending the Summer backpacking in the Sierras "getting his head together" after the death of yet another army buddy. He pulled up a stump and offered me Swiss Miss hot chocolate, the kind with the little pencil eraser marshmallows. I said yes please. I emptied the chocolate into my bowl then carefully licked the chocolate dust out of the foil pouch. I sipped the cup and listened carefully to Bill. He spoke about his time in Viet Nam, the lingering pain which he could not relinquish, his lost friends, the healing power of a simple walk in the mountains. Such a walk was like a balm, he said, like releasing a clenched fist, like embracing weakness, like letting the rain fall on your head and drip through your hair and down your face, washing away the tears and dirt inscriptions.

Bill spoke matter-of-factly, and I simply listened. I could offer nothing except my presence and gracious acceptance of his hot chocolate. The chocolate dried on my cracked and tired lips. I held the bowl up to my nose and let the steam enter my nose as I lost myself in Bill's stories.

At dusk, the rain had calmed. Bill stood and spoke plainly. "I want to thank you," he said, "for being with me this evening. You have been a good friend. I will never forget you." He walked away, disappearing through the mist as he made his way toward his campsite.

In the solitude of my tent, now fully caffeinated from the four hot chocolates I drank, I listened to the gathering winds buffeting my tent and nearby trees. Sleep would not come easy, but that was fine. I knew the sky would be crystal clear in the morning.