1982: The Pasaytan Loop, page 19

September 18, 1982.
Saturday, 1:25 PM. 
Goat Lakes.

I slept in, opting to skip breakfast for a few ZZZs.  Micki was kind of grumpy about it, but I assured her that she would get some of the soup I set about cooking up for lunch at about 11 AM. See, this is how it always works: I share my food with her, but she never once offers me any of her dog food.

Pastoral settings around our camp.

After lunch, we made our leisurely way up to the pass.  We were able to examine up-close-and-personal the clump of trees that was not a watchtower. But they were a swell bunch of trees.

Before we got up to the ridge proper, I saw three hunters at the summit watching us. It made me kind of nervous, the way they were crouching down low against the skyline. So I took off the holster of my 357 and unzipped my little nylon carry bag so my weapon would be ready for use if necessary.

I don't normally anticipate nastiness from the people I meet on the trail, but one incident a few years ago involving some drunken hunters served to make me aware that it was possible. If not for my ice axe and a snarling dog, it could have been a very unpleasant experience. Shortly after getting back to town I sat down with my aunt who is a lawyer and we discussed the ramifications of my owning and carrying a firearm on these hikes. We both came to the conclusion that it would be better if she were to visit me in prison than place flowers on my grave.

As it turned out these particular hunters did not bother us – in fact, they did not seem to want to have anything to do with us. They were much more concerned with watching the clearing on the north side of the pass where they had their high-powered rifle sights trained, hoping an unsuspecting deer would walk into their death zone. I have to say that I have a whole lot more respect for bow hunters then I do for big boys with rifles.

Meadows near upper lake.

Micki and I turned and headed for home, taking care to travel a circuitous route back to our campsite. In fact, we climbed a high point to the west and traversed around the backside of that ridge back to the north so our direction of travel could not be observed.  Better safe than sorry, my grandma always use to say.

The wind is kicking up a little, but I don't care. We only have three more nights (and just one day of hiking) and then we are out! We're going to do the 16-miles to Hart's Pass tomorrow. Then we can sit back and wait to be rescued by my pickup party.

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