Desire is a fickle old mistress.

When I initially mentioned a backpacking trip to my newly retired father, I did so for selfish reasons. Really, I wanted him to assume at least a semi-active lifestyle since his days no longer included being bounced around on bulldozers. I've implied similar notions in the past, using suggestive birthday gifts (bicycling gloves, hiking packs, Nalgene bottles) with moderate success, so I figured I'd at least have a pestering point with which to nudge him in the direction of the door.

But like a newly planted seed, he let the idea take roots. He fed it, nurtured it, and it quickly grew into a full-fledged plan. No longer dependent on weekends for free time, he conspired a mid-week, three-day trek into a section of the Mokelumne Wilderness. The distance, he said, was only about three miles, a perfect amount for someone eager to ease back into the lifestyle. The fishing on the north fork of the Mokelumne River, he told me, would be epic. Thirty years prior, he and his brother and their father could barely get their lines in the water. Each day they caught their limit before lunch, he recalled, and the river's meandering through granite and continual pooling gave anyone with a pole and a plan free reign on the trout.

He spread his excitement across the family like dandelion spores in the wind. Soon he was telling everyone about our return to the Mokelumne. He spent a good portion of my brother's wedding jawing with his brother and step-brother, beaming at his idea, his plan, and his new freedom. Most phone calls I made to him inevitably succumbed to preparations. Did I have utensils? he wondered; What food items did I plan to bring? The trip became a focal point between father and son; it was his pestering point, a countdown-worthy calendar item, the linchpin of my summer vacation that made all the trips before it merely warm-ups.

Day 1:
The trail head sits at Hermit Valley on Highway 4, just west of Ebbetts Pass. From there, it's four miles down the canyon to a spot named Monty Wolf's upper cabin site. The plan, my father said, was to go about three miles and stop near the inlet of a runoff creek labeled on our map.

We began at exactly 10:00 a.m. The trail skirted the north side of the river, then bent away from the water, dropping into a meadow formed by lightning strike and subsequent fire. The decrease in elevation seemed, at the time, undramatic, and my father continually plotted points on his mental and literal map. He pointed out hillsides where, according to him, the landscape would morph from thick trees to open granite. We trudged on through the timber, eager to find the place where the scenery opened and the river began falling into the aforementioned pools.

Could this be his last smile of the trip?

From time to time we rested, hydrated, and consulted the map. We ambled in and out of conversations, sharing both new stories and familiar memories, offering new analysis and previously unmentioned perspectives on the latter.

We crossed the Deer Creek inlet on a log and stopped for a meager lunch of dried fruit. We met two men--the only people we saw on the trip--who confirmed our location and the distance to Monty Wolf's upper cabin site. We passed beautiful campsites in the timber, both feeling headstrong and able, both certain we'd reach the vast rock slabs beyond.

Crossing a swiftly moving Deer Creek inlet on a log.

About a mile below our lunch spot, we veered from the trail and hopped up and down rugged boulders in search of a place to camp. The cross-country search proved the killer. Dad grew increasingly tired; the heat of the sun and the fifty-plus pound pack grew more and more oppressive. We eventually rested in a shady spot, removed the bags, and walked toward the river hoping to find a suitable clearing.

Nothing.

We packed up again and started trudging down the trail, eventually stumbling upon the same two men, shirtless, drinking from tall cans, and enjoying the shade. "You made it," one said, confirming we had in fact walked all four miles to the upper cabin site. My father's heart sank. Exhausted, suffering from a self-diagnosed condition called "rubber legs," and feeling lightheaded in the altitude, he felt his plan had tumbled out of control. There were a few so-so camp spots, one man told us, but nothing like what we'd passed after lunch, a mile or so back up the hill. We turned and, in small steps, made our way back up the small incline to find a place to quit.

Citing "something like claustrophobia," my dad desperately sought an escape from his pack and, eventually, being upright altogether. We ended up back in the shady spot, where I quickly threw together a fire pit while Dad rested. It was nearly 3:30. We'd misfired, bitten off more than we could chew, and had to establish a camp nearly four-hundred feet from the river. It was our only option.

The shady spot, looking back toward the trail.

A clearing, converted for camping.

Days 2 and 3:
Suffice it to say, the trip didn't go according to plan. The details stuck to my father's memory couldn't compete with the reality we'd found. The fishing was, as you might imagine at this point, terrible. I landed two tiny ones on worms Tuesday morning. Other than that, there was nary a hit. My father's attempts with a fly pole went as swimmingly, and we felt thankful we'd packed in sufficient food just in case the fishing stunk.

Catching rays (and not fish).

Both Monday and Tuesday included naps, as well as pre-twilight bedtimes in preparation for Wednesday's uphill trek. The downtime proved vital for us both, as the exodus from the canyon seemed one huge climb after another--something we'd each failed to consider on our optimistic walk in. Somewhere near the location of the lightning strike, Dad reminded me it was his birthday. I realized that he's scripted fifty-four years' worth of evidence that suggest a young mind and stout heart might satisfy your soul, but they'll break your body.

The chair I made for the aged one.

Looking up, the only direction to go from here.

Safely home and rested, I can easily imagine that the older one gets, the more the pleasure is worth the pain. And so I'll think fondly of our misadventure, fish be damned.