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My burst of determination has carried me up the final steep stretch to reach the crest of Frazier Pass. Unlike the lofty spectacle of Wonker Pass on my second day, Frazier Pass presents no grand vista, no sweeping view of peak after peak for dozens of miles around. Frazier Pass is a modest, unassuming landmark. The trail merely flattens out in a well-wooded plateau before arcing over into a gradual descent. It’s just the spot for a bite of lunch under the trees.

I find a large rock where I can prop my pack and lean back against it as I sit. I set down my sitting pad and arrange my water, food, book, and camera within easy reach. Then I commence to rest and eat. There’s just enough shade here to suit me and from this spot I can see the nearest thing to a scenic view – looking north at a junior mountain peak that is actually just another hump on the same long ridge that I am sitting atop. When it comes to scenic views, I am very easy to satisfy. Almost anywhere I look there is something interesting to see. If there is a tree (and there is almost always a tree), then I look at it. Many times a bird will come along, land in the tree and look at me while I look at it. If all else fails, there are always ants.

Today I add a new wrinkle to my lunchtime routine. I take off both my boots and remove the insoles. I set the boots, insoles and socks out in a sunny spot to dry. At the end of each of my outstretched legs there is a bare foot, blaring white in the sun. I can see my toes. This is an interesting novelty to me. I wriggle my toes. Then I try to spread them apart so that none of them is touching an adjoining toe. This takes supreme concentration – so much so that I stop chewing. There! I can see a tiny crack of daylight between the little toe on my right foot and its neighbor. Victory!

I really do enjoy stopping for lunch. It is so edifying.

The crackers, cheese and such all disappear into my whiskery maw, one delightful bite at a time. When I’m finished with the main course, I unwrap a hard candy and suck on it. The sun has moved (actually the earth has turned, I remind myself) so I reach over and move my boots and socks a foot further away, back into the sun. Everything seems mostly dry now.

I’m wrapped in a comfortable indolence. A raven flaps its way across an azure sky, croaking in its deep, harshly musical voice. Each call hangs in the air as a distinct object, set like a jewel against the stillness. In the quiet instant just after the raven speaks, I can hear the vast depth of the sky, where the sound runs off and is lost. This is the life, I think.

More time passes. I notice a single blip of cloud far out above the horizon and follow it as it shifts and reforms itself into new shapes, finally dissolving entirely. I swig at the water bottle and some water runs down my chin and onto my shirt front. I wipe at the drops that cling to my beard. Idly, I remove the folded-up Oracle from my shirt’s breast pocket and read it. I let it hang in my hands while my mind wanders. I mull over whether or not to take a photograph. I decide it’s too much bother.

If the course of a hiking day is like the course of a creek, then lunch is the place where the creek enters a broad, flat meadow and starts to meander in lazy curves and curlicues, in no hurry to reach the far end. But no meadow is endless. Eventually the creek gathers speed, straightens and resumes its headlong rush. Often, for me, the signal that lunch is at an end – that the moment has arrived when I must stir myself and arise – is when I notice my bladder is full. I get up, stretch, and find a plant that needs to be watered.

Once the spell of indolence is broken it is hard to put it back together. Instead, I lace up my boots, pack up my things, and batten down all the openings so nothing can escape my pack. Then I lift the pack up, swing it onto my back and tighten down the shoulder straps. Next, I cinch the belt that secures the pack at my waist.

I’m loaded down again and ready to move on. I cast a quick look about to be sure I haven’t overlooked any thing. Nothing. I am cleared for takeoff. In a dozen short steps the trail tips over from flat to downhill. From here to the Minam River it’s an 800 foot descent.

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