My husband and I approached a camp area on a backpacking loop in the Sierras after our first day of hiking. We would spend four nights and five days making our way through the wilderness. "Welcome!" bellowed a happy, hairy, bare-bellied man who had just emerged from the river. As he dried himself off, he expressed how lucky we all were to be camping in such a beautiful area and pointed out places we could set up our tent. It was as though we were checking into a five-star resort and he was the check-in attendant. We shortly found out his name was Ray—Ray, the camp greeter, we dubbed him. Ray was jolly, grateful, and Ray adored this trail (coincidentally named Rae Lakes Loop).
I am an unlikely backpacker, the one people see, do a quick adjustment in their minds from what a typical backpacker looks like, then most often throw out a word of encouragement, "You can do it! You're almost there! Keep going!" Not super strong, not young, not REI-ad worthy. Ray looked even less like he belonged on the trail than I did. Health and fitness did not appear a priority for him, but hiking this trail was. He and his buddies, Lou and Brian, trekked the 42-mile-loop once a year.
Sometimes we would pass the threesome while they rested on the side of the trail, and sometimes they would pass us. Ray and Lou lost Brian one evening, and Brian carried their cooking equipment, so my husband heated up their food for them and they camped with us.
While Ray's Top Ramen was boiling, he told us about his grandfather, who used to lead a pack of mules over this same pass in the early 1900s. This trail held much meaning for Ray.
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| Glen Pass, 11,926 feet above sea level, 6,000 feet above where we started! |
On Day 3, we climbed Glen Pass, 11,926 feet above sea level, the most difficult part of the trail—steep, rocky, exhausting. Whatever strength one had, this ascent demanded it all and then some. Brent, Lou, and Brian were way ahead, followed by me then Ray. I didn't want to leave Ray behind so purposefully slowed my pace, once even hiking back down a ways to sit with him as he rested.
Perching ourselves on rocks alongside the trail, we sat to catch our breath. Ray reached into his left shirt pocket and pulled out a brightly colored package. "Have you ever tried these energy chews?" he asked. "They're really good," and handed me one. I savored the bright-orange chewy goodness he gave me. I don't know whether the treat had a placebo effect or the vitamins B-12 and C it contained really had their promised results, but I did receive energy to keep going after the rest and the tasty burst of deliciousness Ray shared with me.
Several breaks and refreshments later, we, with elation, reached the top of the pass, where we high-fived each other, drooled over the majestic views, and snapped photos of ourselves, each one rejoicing in the victorious moment.
It's been years since I've met Ray and his friends. Our promises to keep in touch through email fell flat. But when I'm exhausted while doing something difficult that seems beyond my own strength, I think of Ray, the value of rest and camaraderie, and that orange energy chew.
But mostly I think of Ray.
