“Damn thing. One screw came loose. I took off the
other one,” Dave told me as he pushed the door open.
We took off. I noticed the speedometer didn't move.
“What's wrong with it?”
“With what?”
I pointed. “The speedometer.”
“Oh, that.” He shrugged. “I think it's a broken cable. I haven't had time to look at it and the Haywagon,” he
patted the cracked steering wheel. “Well, she gets along.”
“How long has the speedometer been broken?” I said.
“Oh, about three weeks.”
“Three weeks.” I digested this. Driving a car that wasn't working was intolerable to me.
“How do you know how fast you're going?”
“I drive at the speed of traffic . . . “
Dave was nonplused by the condition of his car.
“So, how was the backpacking?”
“Well, it was great as long as I stayed up high. I had come down to cross grassy meadows and I got eaten
by mosquitoes every time.”
“Hey!” I remembered. “You should have seen my last night on Mt. Whitney.”
“Two nights ago, at sunset, on the summit, I had my parka on, watching the shadow of the Sierra Nevada stretch
across Owen’s valley and start to creep up the Inyo mountains.”
I shivered thinking about it.
“It was cold, but there were no bugs!”
“You lucky bastard, Dave said. Then he started singing.
“In the summertime when the weather is fine,” banging on the steering wheel to keep time.
“So, anyway, I look over just as these three people clamber up over the edge of the face.
I stared at them trying to figure out what going on. It turns out they had camped down below and climbed the
north-east face, but got a late start, reached the summit at sunset.”
“Hey,” Dave chuckled. “Did you climb on top of the Sierra hut?”
“Nope. Why would I do that?”
“You could say you’ve been above 14,500 feet in the continental U.S.!”
“Those climbers didn’t have warm clothes in their day packs.” I said. “But, they did have the essential sun block.”
“That’s prepared,” Dave observed.
“They were wearing everything they had.” I laughed. “They were starting to get
