Summertime

It's interesting to think about how our ancient ancestors migrated across continents to populate the world. Before established roads and maps were invented, nomadic tribes crossed continents on foot and oceans on canoes. They survived threats from predators and the environment itself, crafted tools and shelter to make their homes, and hunted and gathered to keep fed and alive. It's interesting to think about because if our early ancestors were anything like some of the tourists I encounter on my day-to-day during the summer months, we'd be extinct.

I've mentioned the inability of travel-weary people to figure out how doors work. People also oftentimes can't figure out how to turn on their TVs, failing to try the power button. Some guests can't figure out where the bathroom is in their room when there are two doors to look in, one of which being a closet. Basic directions to a room start to sound like IKEA instructions. The hotel suddenly becomes a magical labyrinth where everything is a mystery. I'm essentially a Minotaur in khakis and a button down tasked to point people in the right direction and to solve mystic riddles like how to connect to the WiFi, when I should just be another human being interacting with other human beings that happen to be on vacation.

I like to think the heat makes tourist's brains melt. Summers around here are hot, especially in Death Valley, and a lot of tourists drive through there this time of year to see what the hottest place in the US is like (hint: it's hot). Heat makes people uncomfortable, irritable, and spacey, and when you couple that with a hangover from a couple nights of partying in Las Vegas and a four hour drive through a rolling beige landscape, mental faculties aren't going to be firing at 100%.  Whatever semblance of common sense and critical thinking that may have existed in a person is sweated out of the system along with the previous night's shots. The ability to pay attention or listen is a distant memory. Instincts like perception and invention-- instincts that have advanced the civilization for all of human history-- are gone as soon as the city limit sign for Pahrump is in the rear-view mirror.

Mt. Whitney is also a popular destination, and while not hot enough to melt a brain, the air is thin enough apparently to suffocate it. People come in droves for permits to climb the mountain, so cocksure and ready to conquer the tallest mountain in the contiguous US. One would think, surely, being in alpine territory, those instincts of survival and exploration would kick in, but when you consider people come from their homes in San Diego-- at sea level-- and immediately try to climb a mountain that's over 14,000 feet without acclimatization and wonder how they got altitude sickness, or that SAR was called out recently for an injured hiker only to discover he just wanted a helicopter ride back to his car, you start to wonder how some folks survive into adulthood.

Summertime is the busiest season for tourism for the Owens Valley. Being the midway point between Death Valley and Yosemite National Park, and being at the base of Mt. Whitney, makes Lone Pine a popular stop. When exhausted and sunburned tourists, either off the trail or from the desert, brains mush from too little air or too much heat, they oftentimes get to talk to me. Thinking about those brain-melted tourists being descended from ancient nomads is about as believable as me being a Minotaur, but in a way it makes the world that much more magical. If they can make it here, weary travelers emerging from tall mountains and vast deserts, then I can do anything I set my mind to.

If nothing else, I can at least feel good in the fact that, in those moments that I feel stupid, I'm not alone.