I pulled into the familiar bustling village at Tuolomne Meadows. Here, tourists and backpackers of all levels converge to take advantage of the camping, park information, day hikes, store, grill and post office. It's a popular resupply spot for hikers on the John Muir Trail and the Pacific Crest Trail.  I grabbed a fifty-fifty softie ice cream cone and chatted with some hikers at the picnic tables under the tall conifers outside the grill. The day was spectacular--crisp and clear--but a young woman cautioned of the upcoming cold spell due that night that was to last for three days. As I headed out, I verified the expected temperatures with the weather report posted on the message board--lows in the mid to low twenties. Hmmm, last year I was there in July and hadn't really thought about the potential difference in the season.

After I picked up my back country permit, I took a leisurely walk around the flat meadows. I witnessed a large hawk on the ground near the creek bed tearing at the flesh of a small critter. I'm always conflicted when I see a feast --I'm sad for the critter but happy for those that get the meal. It's always a good reminder of the interconnectedness of everything.

I perused the store for any last minute items I could have forgotten or not known were even in existence, as is my wont, and headed up to the backpacker's campground. I loved this campground, as right next to it was the amphitheater where nightly ranger led programs around a big fire pit came to life. I was thoroughly impressed with last year's programs--I didn't recall being as fascinated when I was young, and certainly hadn't noticed that the rangers were deep ecologists. Had they changed or had I? Or both?

I'm appreciative of the fact that backpackers can camp the night before their wilderness permit starts so we can get a fresh start on our journey. It's also a great opportunity to make sure we have all the equipment we need and to test whether it's in good working order. Being in the back country is not the best time to discover that your stove or water purifier isn't working properly.

I pitched my tent and stashed unneeded supplies and equipment in the car. At least I thought they were unneeded for the night. I hadn't prepared for super cold weather--my gear was rated for three seasons--so I rifled through the car and found a bulky pair of wool gloves/mittens and grabbed my jammies I used at the Airbnb the night before. They were way too heavy to take with me on the hike--my pack was weighing in at about 36 pounds--but I'd at least have extra warmth and comfort for the first night.

After the engaging and entertaining campfire program that included poetry and song, I tucked myself in for the night. Clothed only in my base layers with a scarf  around my neck, I climbed into my 30+ year old down sleeping bag. The bag was rated to 30 degrees, so I felt pretty confident I would stay warm through the night. Rarely do I have to 'mummy it up.' In fact I mostly use it as a blanket and sometimes in the wee hours of the morning I'll need to zip it up.

{I recently completed an eleven month project, the Lake Family Resource Center's California HOPE project,  leading a team working with fire survivors of the Mendocino Complex fire in Northern California. As part of my closure for this project, as well as my growing interest in solo backpacking, I hiked a small, iconic, portion of the John Muir Trail. This series is a reflection and a taste of insights I received from that journey.}

In 2018 my planned John Muir Trail hike in Yosemite National Park was hijacked by smoke from the Fergusen Fire. I took an alternate trek in the park to Vogelsang (read more about that adventure here), but within three days, Yosemite Valley was shut down and I found my way back to base camp.

As I drove home to Lake County, the Mendocino Complex Fire, now known as California's largest wildfire in recorded history, had just broken out. I was hearing reports via phone never imagining what the next year would hold for me as I drove from one set of smokey mountains to another. By October, I was invited to lead the FEMA funded project.

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This year in Lake County a few small fires have broken out throughout the summer. Residents here, triggered again and again as each golden-green patch burns, have been living with catastrophic fire since the summer of 2015 when three devastating fires, including the Valley Fire, consumed nearly a third of the county.

It was in July, the beginning of fire season in Lake County and about a month away from completion of the project, that my self care and wellness started slipping. The project itself had a strong self-care component for the team--a team that would meet directly with survivors, help them navigate resources, common reactions to disasters, and learn to set priorities and take small steps toward their recovery.

But, between this project and completing a year long mindfulness teacher training (along with all the usual busyness of life!) I started to slip. I was staying up late watching movies or shopping online. I was eating bigger portions and lots of sugar--things I usually resort to when I'm tired and need to push through what's on my plate, rather than glide with joy through the day's adventure. I was distancing in my intimate relationship, but most importantly, though, I was losing touch with the sacredness of the moment.

By a  few weeks before the end of the project, fatigue took over and I had to rest. I intended to be hiking 3+ miles with full weight (35 pounds) at least two times per week by this time. But instead, I had to set it all aside, only doing the very minimum to get through the day.