Sept. 2
It's night. Mary Breckenridge is zooming her truck along the narrow, twisting road to Edison Lake.
"You ever get nervous driving in the mountains?" I ask, trying to sound merely curious.
"Never!" she says, accelerating.
Once in the sagging white tent at the "resort," Mary takes out her bear earrings and her hearing aid, lays down in her sleeping bag on one of the four cots and that's it, she's asleep. Her strong, steady snore begins as her head sinks into the pillow. No time wasted on wandering thoughts.
Sept. 3
Here's the thing. There really is nothing to experiencing wilderness, or to riding a horse — until suddenly there is.
My horse, Bishop, is trained to just walk along, following the trail horse in front of him. Anyone who can sit upright can manage to handle that, right?
So not 10 minutes into our first day on the trail, as we're moseying through pine trees and swarms of butterflies, Bishop starts bucking.
"Bucko! Help!" I shout to the front of the pack line.
"Pull up his head," Bucko Davis yells.
I'm trying to pull the reins up when Bucko yells at me to give Bishop his head and kick his sides
Give a bucking horse his head? But I trust Bucko. I give Bishop all the reins, and he surges forward.
Then I can hear Mary shouting: "Bees!"
Sept. 3
Granite can look ordinary at first.
Take this boulder I'm resting on. It's rough and speckled with black and white, like it's been doused with seasonings. But turn my head just a little this way or that, and sunlight glints off its crystals of quartz and mica.
The Sierra Nevada is largely exposed granite. The Range of Light — as John Muir dubbed it — sparkles.
Mary and Bucko are sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on a boulder, their heads hunched over his beaded medicine bag.
She asks what he puts in it. He says it can be anything that has meaning to him: a pebble, a twig, something from someone he loves. Once it's in the bag, it never leaves. It becomes one of the pieces that keep him whole. She wonders aloud what she would put in her medicine bag if she had one.
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