7/2

There is a feeling and struggle I believe that Franz Kafka once articulated. There is a demon against which we struggle who has no throat that we can strangle, a villain that has no heart that we can stab, a computer that has no microchip to step on. Essentially the struggle that infuriates me most is one man against nature- one tiny piece of a system glitching against its maker. That is what snow is to me. There are thousands of acres of thick and ripple ice burying the hiking trails. Getting lost is an ordeal of every hour, and gentle switchbacks have become sloping chutes over canyons. What was once a meditative ramble is a struggle- a contest of every hour. And there is no frosty snowman to decapitate or break. There are limitless expanses of land with no neck to strangle.

In practical news though, the battle is going well. Rally and I rushed 14 miles today to meet his friends Macy, at a remote road, bringing tidings of burritoe, cooking and stout beer. Ed joined us for the lazy feast, and we slowly ambled seven miles farther to an old stone hut, where I split wood to feed the stove, and we spread our sleeping bags on old mattresses. It is funny to think that 22 miles constitute an easy day, and resting before nine is early. Sierra city is 34 miles away, and so is ice cream.