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Our four-day hike in Wyoming’s Big Horn Mountains continues a long and revered annual tradition my brother and I started last year. After a break from the world in the Olympics, we vowed to hike somewhere every year. Jon and I have a lifelong friend who lives in Canada. We invited Jay to join us this year. Their wives didn’t come with them. Maybe they know about mosquito hordes. After 26 years on the Olympic Peninsula, I’d forgotten. None of us could get to Wyoming before Friday afternoon. I had to be back in Seattle the following Thursday. Barb and I would have to leave Wyoming on Wednesday morning. If we could get to a phone line early enough, I could even get my column e-mailed to the newspaper in time. Barb and I got the last spot in the campground at the end of 20 miles of rugged road. Jay rolled up a few minutes later. My cell phone had chirped early that morning near Three Forks, Montana. Jon’s old truck wouldn’t start. He called back later. Problem solved, but he’d be late. Jon missed out on grilled steaks, good wine, and brook trout. I was still sitting by the fire swatting mosquitoes when he rolled in ’round midnight. His truck gasped and died and the gearshift came out in his hand. We had a wee dram of whiskey before he zipped into his sleeping bag on the ground and I retired to the relative luxury of our camper. Morning came too early. Although neither Jon nor Jay lives at sea level, we’d all forgotten how high altitude makes even a little alcohol go a very long way. We’d walk off the cobwebs. It took us most of the morning to get our packs loaded. Barb was impressed by the uniformity of our disorganization. She assumed the genetic link between brothers was responsible, but that didn’t explain Jay. Maybe it was lack of oxygen, or maybe it was just boys being boys. Packs were heavy. I was tempted to leave my tent behind, but that would have guaranteed rain. Maybe we could have left out the beer. The trail was a gentle grade for the first few miles, but I couldn’t absorb enough oxygen from thin air to make my legs work eagerly. In another mile, the trail would become steep. We looked at our map and decided to detour half a mile up a creek to Horseshoe Lake. The pads of my little toes were blistered from being squeezed under adjacent toes by boots. Big toes were numb from being forced out of the straight lines they were born with. The lake was pretty and we were the only ones there. I was glad I did have to be the one to suggest we linger. We ate heaviest food first. Wind rattled our tents and woke us frequently. I finally put in earplugs and slept. Any bears around were welcome to me. We spent the day reading, lazing around, and waiting for marrow to churn out more corpuscles. I lanced blisters on my toes and went fishing. Grass, granite, and melting snow felt good on bare feet. I fell in the creek only once. We spent a second night at Horseshoe Lake. The next morning, we hiked on with lighter packs and increased ability to breathe. Jon and Jay left the trail atop the pass to climb higher for the view. I get view at work. I skipped down the other side of the pass and went fishing. I had a campsite set when Jon and Jay came down. Jon and I didn’t bother with tents. I’d forgotten how crowded with stars a clear sky is above thick air and far from city lights. Hiking out the next day was easy. Now that it was time to leave, we were in shape to begin. I took off my boots and walked the last couple of miles barefoot. It felt good. Barb and the dog were glad to see us. We grilled steaks and went to bed early. Jon solved his truck problems in just a few minutes. Familiarity breeds familiarity. Barb and I loaded the camper and began our 1000-mile drive to Seattle. Rocks tore a tire before we reached pavement. That’s why you didn’t read this last week.
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