The next morning, we took a day hike to the Upper Basin. We climbed until we reached an open meadow surrounded by mountains reaching up to a brilliant blue sky. Two deer calmly grazed in the distance to complete the perfect setting.
"That must be Mount Deception," Elaine said, pointing to a peak to our left. We gazed, breathed in the clear mountain air, and debated how the mountain got its name.
"This was worth the climb. The Upper Basin is truly beautiful."
"Oh, this isn't the Upper Basin," Elaine said. "The guide book warns not to be fooled and turn back to soon. We need to climb higher."
We trudged onward and the guidebook was right. Once again the trail spilled us out into a basin with surrounding mountains and a view of the meadow.
"I think I was wrong before. That must be Mount Deception," Elaine said, pointing to a peak to our left that had been hidden at the level below. We gazed, breathed in the clear mountain air, and debated how the mountain got its name.
"This was worth the climb. The Upper Basin is truly beautiful."
"Oh, this isn't the Upper Basin," Elaine said. "We need to climb higher."
With a scowl of suspicion, we plodded upwards and for the third time that day, the view did not disappoint. After hiking across a small patch of snow, we arrived at the third basin containing, this time, a mountain lake with glacier blue/green water. The mountain peaks thrust jaggedly into the sky cradling pockets of snow in their crevices.
"I think I was wrong before. That must be Mount Deception," Elaine said, pointing to a peak to our left that had been hidden at the level below. We gazed, breathed in the clear mountain air, and debated how the mountain got its name.
"This was worth the climb. The Upper Basin is truly beautiful." I glared at Elaine, daring her to make us climb any higher, but lucky for her, she simply breathed deeply and responded, "Yes it is."
A rumbling disrupted the silence and at first I thought someone was crossing the snow patch, but the sound was deeper and more powerful than footsteps. A rockslide. Scanning the mountain revealed no movement and soon the rumbling, which echoed through the basin, stopped. The slide must have been on the other side of the peak, which did not reduce the impact of the noise on our imaginations. The piles of rocks and skree throughout the basin took on new meanings, as did the boulder, the size of two VW Bugs, perched by the lake. How long ago had these pieces been part of the mountain above?
Since this hike took us through alpine areas, the fragile environment required changes in our trail peeing habits. In order to protect the plant life, hikers were requested to pee on rocks or on the trail. This took away some of the privacy of being able to traipse off into the woods and pee behind the cover of a tree.
For a hiker's gorp (and other trail foods) recycling needs, the campsite provided composting toilets, which allowed for a safe reintroduction of human waste back into the environment. The toilet was perched on a thigh-high pedestal with a five-foot wide wall providing the only hint of privacy. The height of the wall, tall enough only to cover your seated area, allowed for you chest and head to be visible to a passerby. Two of these sat side by side near the campsite. I still cannot imagine seeing a stranger's head above the wall and nonchalantly taking the other seat.
The first day, we didn't brave the toilets, however, by the second day, nature demanded we drop our modesty to take care of our body's basic needs. After descending from the Upper Basin, I headed for the toilet, figuring that the other campers had long since left camp. To my dismay, I saw a head, so I walked on and waited around a curve in the path. After an appropriate amount of time elapsed, I returned and found the area vacated. I was just about to duck behind the wall, when Elaine and Robyne appeared. Before one of us could make the move, a guy strolls up and says, "Oh there's a line," and then proceeded to wait. So much for privacy.
As with all of our backpacking trips, the consumption of trail food and the lack bathing makes us appreciate the showers and fine dining of civilization. First order of business was a motel, yet we didn't want to break the bank. After checking a couple hotels and being unable to find a decent one within our price range, we pulled up to the Chinook Motel. Robyne dashed (or hobbled) in to check their rates and informed us we were in our price range.
We scanned the peeling slime-green paint on the doors. The pool, invisible behind an ivy-infested fence, bore a sign, "Temporarily Closed," yet the boarded up gate made the pool seem as if it had been "closed" for years. The "lobby," complete with a statue of the Virgin Mary, reeked of old smoke and sweat.
Movie casting directors could not have come up with a more authentic manager. Attired in a stained T-Shirt, he stood, his head only inches below the layer of cigarette smoke clinging to the ceiling. The look of surprise Robyne received when she asked for a room for the night made us wonder if most of their clientele paid by the hour. If you looked up "skank" in the dictionary, you'd find a picture of this motel. We decided against staying.
Just down the road, for about the same price, we found the AAA approved Aircrest motel. The added bonus? A Laundromat next door, which provided the added excitement of Robyne's first ever trip to a Laundromat.
We decided on "Michael's" for dinner, since their billboard promised "Divine Dining." Obviously, only a gay man would use the word "Divine," and everyone knows how well gay men cook. Plus, when we called, they said the restaurant was just a short walk away from our motel.
Short walk!?! Ten blocks is not a short walk after backpacking, but we limped and hobbled our way to the restaurant. The meal did not disappoint and we were able to fortify ourselves with enough wine to make the journey back to our motel.