He awoke later than he would have preferred. Jerked beef. Pissed in a wood. Got the laptop working for the last time. Ate an apple and some sunflower seeds. A family--husband, wife, two boys--of pilgrims garbed in long white gowns came down to the lake's edge and lifted their hems as they stepped into the lake, to commune spiritually with God, j supposed. One of the boys was talking. 

"Shut up," snapped the father. "Shut your mouth."

j found the white-gowned pilgrim's viciously unchristian tone darkly amusing. 

He began to break camp around eleven: took down the tent, rolled the sleeping bag, deflated the mattress, and packed his goods into the car. He would have liked to have stayed longer but had promised his wife he would be home early enough to see Bugs Bunny at the Hollywood Bowl, and there were things he wanted to do along the way. Maybe stop in Reno or Mammoth. Cut the drive in half.

He listened to Miles Davis as he rode through the park. He stopped at the trailhead to Lassen Peak. It was only five miles, round-trip, but had a twenty-five-hundred-foot elevation game and an estimated return time of four hours.