up there on the Eastern Sierra we in the valley regard.
We are too late to stop at Pizza Factory. We opt for Subway.
We opt for driving up the 395 four times a year.
I cannot tell Mt. Whitney from its nearby peaks.
John Muir couldn't either, one time, hoping to summit it
in a day, ascending the wrong peak, unable to descend
in the dark, stamping and dancing all night to keep from
freezing. It is not freezing here now and hasn't been
for weeks. It is February. It is Leap Year. My lips are dry.
From Muir I learned of snow banners blowing off
the tops of the mountains in winter. He wrote well.
I don't fear hell. I fear the fact the land he saw is not
coming back. We zoom along a seam in the valley.