For Thursday, August 24, 2000                                    Drummer Column, Gibbs, 738 words

 

Swell times in Yosemite
(part I of II)

 

 

     I have this friend. His name is Gino. He's from Philadelphia. We were college roommates back at Penn State in the '70s. Over the years, we've taken turns flying to opposite coasts to visit. This summer he flew here with two requests -- eat well in San Francisco and trout fish in Yosemite. We did that. The SF eating part worked out well, with lots of pasta. However, the Yosemite trip became the thing nightmares are made of. Actually, most of the trip was great, right up to the near-death experience part.

     We hiked to Ten Lakes, seven miles uphill over a 9,600-foot ridge. Gino's in better shape than I'm in. He led the way. However, he'd never backpacked before, and when he finally dropped his pack at the lakeside, he said to me in all seriousness, "That was the hardest thing I've ever done."

     We set up camp, ate lightly, bear-bagged our food in a nearby tree, gathered firewood, Gino took his antibiotics for a sinus infection he caught just before leaving Philly, and we turned in early. We didn't use a tent. We slept under the stars. We spent the next two days trout fishing at various lakes. We caught a total of seven huge brook trout, measuring between 12 and 17 inches. Back at camp each night we battered them up with spices and other fixins and ate like princes because we're too young to be kings.

     On our last day, we swam in the uppermost lake, which was warm and sparkling clean. We explored the granite slopes at the edge of the tree line and stood on the peak of a mountain to admire the view. We tried to make a cell phone call, but technology is not that advanced yet -- no signal. Just as well.

     We hiked back to camp and had our final fish feast at sunset. Above us a full moon illuminated the sky. We moved our chairs out to the shoreline and enjoyed the quiet, dark majesty of the night, the moon reflecting on the glassy surface of the lake. The inverted landscape shimmered in the water's reflection. Gino walked off into the woods to relieve himself. When he returned, the weirdness began. He rushed back saying, "What the blankety blank blank is going on here!?" It was a question and an exclamation smothered in cuss words.

     "What's the matter?" I asked.

     "I've got welts all over my legs," he said. We shined flashlights on his legs. "Holy blankety blip blip freakin' bleep!!" we both said. Gino had huge, thick, pink welts covering both of his legs. They were the size of human hands stuffed under the skin. "Look at my butt," he said, and mooned me under the full moon. "Gawd, golly, man oh man!" Poor Gino's butt was covered with the same huge, puffy, pink splotches. His back, chest, arms, and head were fine. The swelling was localized between his knees and hips.

     We tried to brainstorm. "Did you just sit in something out there in the dark woods?" "No." "Maybe you got it while swimming." "But we both were swimming." "Maybe I tossed my shorts over an anthill." "I didn't see any anthills." "Maybe it was the trout." "But we both ate half of each trout." "Maybe the antibiotics are reacting to the trout." "Maybe so." "Are you having any trouble breathing?" "No." "Whew. Thank God." "Do you feel sick, faint, feverish?" "No." "Wow. This is some strange stuff, Gino." "You're telling me." "Maybe it's an acute reaction to a bug bite, maybe a spider." "Well, let's try and get some sleep and see if it's better in the morning, then we'll get the heck out of here. Wake me if it gets worse."

     In my mind I pictured myself armed with both our flashlights, running down seven miles of midnight trail to the road. Damn all cell phones.

     The next morning, I raised my head to look toward Gino's sleeping bag. I figured if he were lying in it motionless, I would call out his name. I imagined him not answering. I imagined myself jumping up, rushing over and shaking him. Oh, God, what if I rolled him over and his face were puffed out like a Big Jim tomato? Or worse, what if it were cold and pasty white? Ahhh. The horror. I rose and turned. Gino's sleeping bag was empty.

(must be continued)