I was going to fix the speedometer, the door handle, that frigging brake, oil the door and the glove box.
A door handle saved me a hundred bucks, a lot of labor and my ass – who would have thought.”
I was astounded by his logic.
I walked up the road and sat on the ground by our stuff, Dave followed me.
“Is there any vodka left?”
I started to take a mouthful and blew vodka into the road instead.
“Good, huh?” Dave started to laugh, taking the bottle from my hand.
“Here comes that car. Let's catch a ride to the Meadows.”
We unloaded our stuff in the Tuolumne Meadows campground, laid out our sleeping bags. It was late, but I
decided to heat some water for tea. I took my pack apart, looking for my stove.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for my stove,” I said.
“You were going to show it to me in Bishop.” Dave started snorting, “Then we stopped for gas,” and burst out laughing.
“Yeah, I put it.” A dawning realization came over me. “Oh my God,” I said with a sinking feeling. “I put it under the front seat . . .”
“You mean it's still there?” Dave said.
“Yeah,” I nodded.
He burst out laughing.
“I'll bet it don't work too good now!”
I failed to see the humor in the situation.
He stopped laughing.
“What're you doing?”
I couldn’t believe I what I had done.
“I'm going to go get it.”
“Tonight? With no light?”
“No. I'll wait until morning.” I crawled into my sleeping bag.
“Hey,” Dave said. “Let it go. Don’t go back there.”
“That’s where my stove is.” I rolled over.
It was cold when I woke and the sky was starting to turn gray in the east.
“What are you doing?” Dave was half asleep.
“I told you last night. I'm going after my stove.”
“Don’t bother,” Dave told me.
I heard him adjusting his sleeping bag. I wanted to crawl back in my sleeping bag, it was cold, but I had
just got the stove - I couldn’t walk away from it. I continued dressing, hunting for my clothes. My boots
were stiff when I pulled them on, got to my knees, stuffed my sleeping bag, stood, shouldered my pack and
started to walk to the road.
I looked at my watch - 5:30 AM.
