Routes
This won’t help at all. Outdoor World has an end cap with Wiffle Ball bats. I went in looking for some category 4 sunglasses. Otherwise known as glacier glasses, the dark tinted lenses and sideshields are necessary while at altitude, on snow. Three-day weekend coming up and snow-capped Mount Shasta is in range, so some seriously dark eyeware is needed. None is to be found at Outdoor World, but life can’t be all serious, so the Wiffle Ball and bat leave the store with me.
The floor is a mess of gear. Figure four top layers and three bottom layers. Three or four canteens? Bring four, probably set out with three. Start drinking water on Wednesday and don’t stop until I leave the Jeep Saturday morning. Chug the fourth canteen just before I leave. Leaving Seaside City Hall at twenty-some feet above sea level to the tip of Mount Shasta at 14,180 feet is inviting altitude sickness, and hydration is one of the best defenses.
“Avalanche Gulch” sounds better, but only slightly, than “Death Canyon” in the Tetons, and that will be the route. Not really the season for avalanches, but there’s all the other stuff to put a dent in your mortality; slips, falls, crevasses, lightning, bears, hypothermia, storms, sketchy burritos. I read it’s a volcano, too. Swell. Avalanche Gulch it will be then. The easiest way up the mountain, I read. If you’re searching for an example of relativity, “easiest” ways up mountains is a good one. Sleep and oxygen deprivation, combined with - are you kidding me, this is ridiculous - scale. For days or weeks at a time, depending on your insanity level.
The Wiffle Ball and bat is the very definition of an impulse purchase; $5.99. I’m certain some MBA figured out exactly what the optimal pricing strategy was for five cents of raw material plastic and three cents of packaging. They have entire semesters at biz school on this stuff. That I leave the store with it was certain, but what am I going to do now? Throwing the ball up and hitting it doesn’t capture the whole “wiffling” experience. But that’s what I’m left with, what with baseball season over.
From 8:00 to 5:00 on weekdays, there’s a candy dish inviting people into the office to talk, but outside those 45 hours a week, there’s the chirping of birds, the tumble of waves or rustle of trees and the buzz of insects. Perhaps, the “do you need a bag with that?” Safeway cashier. And the Yamaha amp or receiver, two of my oldest and dearest friends, depending on whether I’m at the office or not. Otherwise, I’m Hilts in the cooler, plotting my next escape.
Which is a mountain, six hours north. Pecan pie for breakfast, In-N-Out for lunch, pizza for dinner and any song you want to listen to, anytime, sounds better than it actually is. Which is all the complain’n you’ll get. Routes up mountains or through lives are what they are. Some are easy. Some are hard. Hope for the best and prepare for the worst. But when your bosses tell you they’re a little worried about how much the Jeep is parked at the office, its time to break out the Rand McNally.
Check the web cam and advance mountain forecast and think about adding an extra layer. Think about, given the extra layer’s warmth and weight, whether to pack the emergency bivvy sack. Don’t be stupid, it’s five ounces, it goes with.
Which is about what the Wiffle Ball and bat weighs…
Routes through lives and up mountains are what they are. Here’s hoping there’s someone at high camp who wants to play ball.
