“I think I’ll wait here.” I say.
“We’ll be three or four hours,” cautions Angela.
“Dandy. I’ve got my Kindle. Don’t hurry.”
The hike up French Valley is supposed to be hugely difficult….I’m tired and full of the microns of the group zapping about in my space. Six people to a room and close quarters for a long time….hard for anyone to keep best foot forward for three weeks.
The shelter at Camp Italiano has three sides, packs resting about. I make a little nest in the corner. Backpack as barca-lounger, a little board keeps my seat from the dirt. Cozy.
only two people at a time on the bridge
Pull a wool scarf from my pack to use as a blanket. Cozier still.
Folks come in to cook things on their little stoves opposite me. Love listening to the languages, envisioning the lives that brought them here. The young English couple smooches as they warm their lentil soup. The Italian guy makes some tea. If I’m really still the little crested sparrow, who snaps up crumbs, will come super close, just a few inches away. Cute little guy, looks like our sparrows, but with a hat. The jays here are a brighter blue. Woodpeckers striking. Ducks look like they’ve marched from Noah’s Ark.
“OH!’ The German guy is so startled by me….my scarf blanket is multi-colored…I’m so quiet he didn’t know anyone was there. I get to practice my German which is fun. Really, I could stay here all day. The part I’m skipping is notoriously difficult. Not used to being the poorest at any physical activity, but heck, I’m having fun and that’s what matters.
Finally the crew returns…except for the two maniacs, and one guide….who have done the very roughest part of the hike. It’s another five kilometers to the next refugio.
Five purple toe-nails. “Hiking saves on pedicures,” says Angela.
