I leaned forward and stuck my head out of the Jeep Comanches fiberglass canopy. Resting on my elbows, I looked around the Valley in the Eastern Sierra that we were camped. The nearest big city, Fresno, was a few hundred miles to the southwest, leaving the night's sky unmolested by light pollution. There wasn't a could in site and the stars shined bright, casting just enough light to see the beaver pond that we had backed up to just before dark the night before. Despite being early summer, the air was still cold, and by my best guess, in the low 40s. Retreating back into the truck Canopy, I rearranged my pillows, checked the valve on my thermarest to make sure it was tight, laid down and pulled my sleeping bag up around my face.
I couldn't sleep. Rolling over on to my stomach and propping up on my elbows, I took a swig from my water bottle and stashed it under my pillow. Twenty minutes passed, maybe thirty and I wasn't any closer to falling asleep. Frustrated, I kicked off my sleeping bag and crawled out of the Canopy. Finding my flip flops in the dark, I walked twenty feet away form the truck and took a piss. The night was quite, save for the constant hissing of wind running down the aspen trees in the valley floor off towards the basin some three thousand feet bellow. I was forcing it. I didn't really need to pee but was searching for anything possible barrier between me and waking up next to a stream in the Sierras. Finally, after swaying with the trees for a few moments, I heard the familiar sound of pee splattering off river rocks.
Five days before, Trevor and I flew to Denver to pick up a Jeep Comanche he found on Craigslist. After spending the night at my college roommates place in Denver, the truck checked out as promised and we were off. Taking the 14 through northern Colorado into Utah, we camped by night in BLM land. The Comanche ran like a dream.
Pellet gun target practice.
Sunrise in the high Sierra.
Hot springs changing room.
Along the way, I shot a look book for Patagonia's upcoming 40th Anniversary Collection.
Flicking the fly.
"People still use that shit?" referring to an atlas.
Chili, Avocado and a tortilla. Dinner
Fifteen miles off the 50 on a one track road, somewhere in Nevada.
The last remnants of winter.
Trevor's 1991 Jeep Comanche.
Wake up in Utah.
Evening entertainment curtsy of Bureau of Land Management.
Staring up at the sky, I searched for a satellite. After a few seconds, I spotted one and followed its slow track across the sky. It was just before 3:30, and I had been awake for an hour and a half. Memories of sleepless nights laying in my apartment in New York listening to sound of sirens and the occasional subway getting increasingly anxious for a meeting the next morning brought me back to reality. Walking back to the truck, I reached for my sleeping bag and pad and pulled it out of the bed.
After finding a level place, I kicked out a half covered rock and set my pad down. Obstructed by the valley walls and a few aspen trees, I yawned and resumed my search for satellites.
Here are some more links, 40th Anniversary Collection (Patagonia),