Last August, I spent a week bumbling around the South Fork Kings River. From Road’s End in Kings Canyon National Park, I climbed up to Granite and the Horseshoe Lakes; took Roper’s High Route over Gray, White, and Red Passes, then over into the Lakes Basin; left the Lakes Basin via Cartridge Pass, then met the PCT at the South Fork crossing; followed the PCT corridor south over Pinchot and Glen Passes and down into Bubbs Creek; then finally followed Bubbs Creek back to Road’s End.

The trip’s retrospectively taken on some extra importance. This past February I was diagnosed with Hodgkins Lymphoma, and have spent this summer getting chemo and trying to get better. So this was my last trip before cancer, and one I’ve spent many sick days imagining—hiking over hills and swimming through streams in a body that still felt like mine.

August 1, 2025

1.

I leave Portland around six, and speed down I5 past all the familiar landmarks: Salem, Eugene, the hot sunny hills north of Ashland. My stomach feels weird with pre-trip nerves. Leftovers from last night’s pizza aren’t helping.

I stop in Ashland for gas and soda, then climb into less familiar terrain—over Siskiyou Summit and down into the California heat. Yreka and Weed, Mt Shasta and the empty reservoirs of Shasta Lake.

Traffic thickens near Redding, and stays bad for a hundred something miles south to Sacramento, where my way veers southeast to Fresno. A hundred something more miles of traffic, and a smoggy sunset over ramshackle towns and acres of arid farmland.

2.

I arrive at my hotel—an anonymous steel and glass chain—just after dark, then walk half a mile through headlights and radiating heat to dinner at an American-Chinese fast-food franchise. Orange chicken and chow mein. Then back to my too-cool room to call Krista. “It’s so strange here!”

August 2, 2025

3.

My stomach’s a nervous mess and I sleep strangely. Dreams of falling rock and unfordable rivers.

The morning’s a blur of last-minute errands and cracked asphalt as the car and I climb to King’s Canyon. Big trees and an interminably winding road.

After what feels like hours, I arrive at Road’s End to get my permit. There are families everywhere, swimming in the river and picnicking in the meadows. A big group of guys are jumping off big rocks into the river, competing for who can make the bigger splash.

4.

The ranger station’s a small shed in the shady sand beside the parking lot. Their computer’s propped up on unfinished wood. You can’t go in, but instead stand outside at a sort of counter while the ranger does their thing.

The ranger smiles when she sees me itinerary. “A big loop!” She looks devious. “… That’s not the Rae Lakes Loop!”

5.

It’s barely one and I don’t really have anything else to do today, so I decide to be a tourist. I eat a sandwich I brought from Fresno along the river, watching as the guys from earlier work on increasingly calibrated versions of the cannonball. If you just tuck your legs loosely and make a sort of circle with your arms and…

I swim out into the unsplashed water and listen to their laughs echoing off the canyon walls.

6.

I’m staying at a campground 25 miles back, and take the drive slowly, stopping at every conceivable point of interest. Viewpoints and swimming holes and groves of ancient trees. A tourist trap called “Boyden Cavern” that I pay a stupid amount of money to see.

7.

It’s early evening by the time I make it to my giant campground, and setup my little tent among the enormous RVs.

It feels too early to eat, so I drive the few miles over to Hume Lake, and swim out from the fishing pier. The entire shore is lined with people—families with picnics, couples canoodling, teenagers furtively drinking, old men fishing off big granite blocks.

Back on the shore I furtively drink my own beer.

8.

The campground’s all activity when I get back. Campers are cooking or cleaning or (unfurtively) drinking. I make my little dinner—freeze dried mac and cheese and another beer—and watch a guy across the way do something miraculous with hot dogs, chili, and tons—tons—of bright orange pre-grated cheese. I hear him slur the phrase “my famous” more than once.

I think seriously about canceling my trip to hang out with him.

At sunset I walk around the campground trails to Indian Basin and a set of meadows along Indian Creek. Deer are everywhere, nipping at the grass and nuzzling at the edge of the forest.