July 12

Balloons of rock protruding above the timberline. My feet propped up on a pine, my body laced with ants, my mind half asleep in the sun.

The sun is down and I am sealed inside my shelter away from the torrents of mosquitoes. We are camped around 8800, which is considered low for the Sierra, in the crevice of two canyon walls. A very hard day, dropping down into glacial canyons only to climb straight back out along the canyons opposite wall, through pockets of lakes and high hidden meadows, ruggedly narrow switchbacks. We crossed eight rivers today. Despite 22 miles, we were still able to fit in two naps as well as some reading. Annies mac-n-cheese for dinner tonight, again. Above me, the rocks rise bare and build into shapes: gnarled spires and bulging walls, scoured bowls, knife edges. I am able to aquaint myself with these shapes by walking across them, tracing their contours with the soles of my shoes. I am a small thing in a big place.