And Every Breath We Drew Was Hallelujah

Above Trail Camp

After Climbing Mt. Whitney

Trail Camp, set at 12,000 feet, is a tent city. It is the final resting point for hikers climbing Mt. Whitney, as well as the recovery point for those who have summited. The camp, a rocky amphitheatre, is high, relentlessly stark and devoid of all warmth and greenery. The sunlight seems filtered and ineffective, like broth. The tents are set up like houses on a Monopoly board while hordes of famished, filthy backpackers glower at their neighbors and fiddle with temperamental stoves. Wisps of toilet paper protrude from underneath rocks and flutter in the incessant wind.

Turkey Tetrazzini Pete, my trusty hiking buddy, described it well as we stumbled into Trail Camp one August evening after climbing Mt. Whitney: "This place is absolute turdsville." We had no other options, however, and we reluctantly claimed a tent site.

Turkey Tetrazzini Pete lit the stove and started dinner. Using his dirty hands, he rolled our falafel mix into little falafel balls. He dropped them into a frying pan filled with hot oil. The oil spurted and hissed like it does back home when you make farm bacon on a Sunday morning. The falafel balls immediately disintegrated and turned a pasty, grey color. Turkey Tetrazzini Pete and I said nothing. We simply stared into the frying pan as our dinner congealed. Then, in quick desperation, Turkey Tetrazzini Pete tried spooning the falafel back into shape as he stammered, "No! No! No! Oh, God, no!" as if he were describing the Hindenburg disaster. It was a total loss (just like the Hindenburg disaster).

"I have no appetite," I finally told Turkey Tetrazzini Pete. "Who's stupid idea was it to bring falafel on a backpacking trip anyway?"

He smiled sheephishly (because it was his stupid idea to bring falafel on a backpacking trip) and reached into a bear canister and pulled out the last of our food, some pita bread. The pita bread was stale and crunched like tortilla chips when you bit into it. It smelled like chicken fertilizer and tasted sharp, like bleu cheese. I tossed it aside. It appeared to be moldy. Some toilet paper blew into camp and wrapped itself around my leg. I refused to touch it and simply gazed up at Mt. Whitney and let the wind gust in and out of my ears.

Turkey Tetrazzini Pete and I looked at each other. There was a single, silent, still moment which may have been about a second. Perhaps 30 seconds. The wind stopped. The hot oil's complaining hesitated. Emotions snapped like our hiking boot coming down hard on the fallen branch of an Aspen.

The laughter came slowly at first. And in a Sierran second it was beyond our control, or anyone's control, like the start of a really long pee, or the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, or your kids getting older. Great guttural, diaphragmatic laughter full of gasps and whoops and spells of breath-holding followed as tears poured down our cheeks and our legs went weak. In the end we were flat on our backs staring at the sky, too exhausted and wonderfully deflated to accomplish any task except breathing.

Other backpackers came to investigate. One woman asked if we needed assistance. She looked like Jane Goodall. "Are you ok?" she asked. We ignored her. Pete reached into a bear canister and pulled out the very last of our food, some Jiffy Pop popcorn. He held it aloft, shaking it like a maraca while dancing around like a gorilla.

We took turns holding the Jiffy Pop over the stove as the domed, foil center slowly unwound and formed a twisty, silver sphere. It looked like a planet. It was beautiful. I took my pocket knife and cut open the foil, thereby venting the steam. It smelled buttery and like a Saturday afternoon matinee. Most of the popcorn fell onto the ground. We ate it all. Somehow the popcorn on the ground tasted best. It was delicious, the most delicious dinner ever.

We spent the evening eating the uncooked kernels and picking the remnants out of our teeth. We talked about mountains and stars and goofy people from college, like that guy who always dropped his tray in the dining commons.

"Didn't we name him The Dropper?" I asked Turkey Tetrazzini Pete.

"Yes," he answered, "We called him The Dropper."