The Old Man on the way to Yosemite, Part I

I hopped off an unlocked and air-conditioned engine car in Merced, California to a heatslap of 107 degrees. Merced was a dry and buggy town, far larger than it should have been and right in the middle the dusty agricultural land that is so common in California. Many people ended up there for a night or two on their way to Yosemite National Park, which was about 60 miles away. There wasnt much to do in Merced, but I planned on spending a few days there gathering and preparing for an extra person: I had a friend from Scotland that was taking a trip to the states and we had decided to meet there in Yosemite.

When she off-leash, Laika would run ahead to the next shady spot on the path and collapse in a brown heap of fur and tongue. She'd wait till I had passed her a little ways before running ahead and do the same thing again. Despite being half-ridgeback (an African breed), she was not faring well in the unfamiliar heat. Both she and I were still green, having just left on our trip less than a month ago and just now getting accustomed to walking 15 miles a day.

I bought extra sleeping pad at a local store and stashed it in a bush along the train tracks. Katy, my friend, would find it later; my pack was already full and I still had no idea how much hiking there was going to be before I got to Yosemite. I left Katy a detailed message about how to find it, and started making my way towards the highway. My plan was to start hitchiking towards Mariposa the next morning; it was the last major town before Yosemite, and I knew a bunch of vacationers would be heading into the park early in the day. On my way through town, a young couple parked outside a store pointed at Laika and laughed. The man spoke first:

           “Thats a nice dog you have there- I love his backpack! Making him do all the work, eh?” I nodded and smiled at the him; he was in his late thirties and had an impressive belly that fro some reason suited his long hair and dark skin. He smiled and extended hand down towards Laika, who was perking up a bit now that the sun was going down.

“Where are ya coming from?” the woman asked, no doubt noticing that my backpack was a bit too new looking for a seasoned traveler.

“North Carolina! Were heading over to Yosemite, trying to do some hiking. Do yall know how far it is to get there?” I already knew the answer to that question, but wanted to make some conversation. The woman finished packing something into the cars trunk and turned to face me

“Its not very far, but it might be hard to get a ride at this time of night.” She paused. “We live in Oakhurst, its just a hop way- want a lift?” The womans body language was kind, but I could tell she was unaccustomed to picking up homeless kids and their dogs.

“Oh yeah! That would be awesome. I'm pretty lost out here.” I laughed genuinely, surprised at this turn f events. Oakhurst was a bit south of Mariposa, but would still be a good spot to hitch in with some tourists, circumventing the $10 admission fee. They offered Laika some of the dog food they just bought for their own dogs at home, which she gobbled up thankfully, stopping every few minutes to lick their hands and be appreciative.

Apparently, a dog with a backpack is unique enough to make a lot of people drop their guard around strangers. Its odd how rare it is to see a dog performing a useful task these days, considering that has been their express purpose for thousands of years. It wasnt until the 20th century that “companion dogs” really took hold as a popular idea- a fact that has had an incredibly detrimental effect on breed standards. Once powerful breeds have been turned into anatomical perversions, unable to function without constant human attention . The most famous example is German Shepards, whos rear legs look broken and deformed and trail behind them, making weird hopping motions that earn them the popular description of being “half dog, half frog.”

But not Laika.

Laika was a 45 pound half pitbull, half rhodesian ridgeback powerhouse- mixed genetics gave her a muscular and well adapted body, brown all over with a face that always looked worried. I had rescued her from a South Carolina fighting ring at 7 weeks old, and she was now nearing 6 months. Her backpack was empty, and mine was full of dog food: dogs bones are too soft for about a year. I had gotten Laika for protection and companionship, with the added benefit of being able to carry some weight on her back (eventually). She had made it much harder to hitchike, but I enjoyed sleeping securely at night and having something to deter the railroad bulls from chasing me down.

Laika and I were now heading to Oakhurst, California in the back of a green minivan. We watched the auburn desert turn into green, winding valleys and mountainscapes. I spoke with the couple about yosemite, California, dogs, North Carolina, and where to get good ribs. They were nice enough to drive me through Oakhurst, towards Yosemite on highway 41. There was a fork in the road a sign pointing toward Yosemite and what looked like a steep drop-off on one side of us. They let me out of their car in some diners parking lot. After getting my bearings, I set up my hammock in some steeply sloped forest in the backyard of a rural public theatre. Like most people I met on the road, I never saw that couple again.

The next morning I woke up refreshed. No longer were my legs aching after every day, and I could feel my body become more accustomed to all the walking. There was a nearby spring, and I filled up my dromedary. It was probably about 10 am when I got back to the road and started hitchiking, but I have no way of knowing.

I had only been thumbing for 10 minutes before I met the old man. He skidded into the gravel parking lot in an old Honda and lowered the passengers side window.

“Hop in!” he said with a toothless smile, and waved me inside.

“Oh ya got a dog thar! Thats ok! Come on in! I got a pup!” he held up a small black puppy, probably about 8 weeks old. Everything the man said and did looked to be part of one continuous motion, like he was in a dream and playing his part. I put my pack in the trunk and led Laika to the back seat with the puppy. I sat in the front. He sped off as quickly as he came in.

There was a fork in the road immediately ahead with Yosemite. Instead of going down Yosemite, we turned right. I had assumed that anybody heading this far out would automatically be going to Yosemite; not many people lived in the area. Oh well.
            “So, uh, where are we going?”

“Bass lake! Weve got a family reunion to go to! Oh theres tons of people. Youll love em. Oh yeah theres a big lake, you can swim, you can run, you can climb the trees. Oh we go out here every year!” By now, I had looked around at the car and at him more closely. This man was definitely crazy, I just wasnt sure how crazy yet. His name was Jack, and he was on the white side of sixty. Jack had a glassy look in his blue eyes and spoke with a classic geriatric drawl, the kind that makes me wonder at what age people start to talk like that. Is it like an accent? Do old people learn it and pass it on culturally like nursery rhymes with children? I guess ill find out eventually. I muse inwardly about the concept of nursing home rhymes and stare out the window as the scenery become greener. 

To read part II, go here