Yosemite Kate

With aching bodies from a hard day's hike, Tim, Kara and I unfurled our mounds of gear near the shores of Buena Vista Lake in Yosemite National Park.

Despite the nomad-looking guy we spotted for a split second just south of the lake, we hadn't seen a soul for hours. That all was about to change.

From a distance she didn't look like much. But that was, like I said, from a distance.

Moving past Kara with all the grace of a sasquatch was a woman - an Amazon-like woman. Strapped to her Volkswagen-sized back, however, was clearly the pack of a minimalist.

Nothing but a grunt was tossed our way as she trudged through our camp and into a cluster of nearby trees along the lake.

Watching as she disappeared in the towering pines, we sort of gazed back at each other in blankness. Who was that woman? A park employee? Solo backpacker? Mountain woman ready to claim her backcountry spouse?

Soon she strolled back to our camp, growing in meters with each step.

"I'm going to hike up to the summit," she said in a surprisingly sheepish manner. "You guys mind if I leave my pack here?"

"Not at all," we blared.

Dropping her purse-size pack against a tree, she flipped open the lid and began to rummage. Grabbing what looked like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, she headed toward the fallen slabs of Buena Vista Peak.

Eyeing her pack - more thin than thick - we spotted a tag draped from the side. "Kate," she apparently went by. A single-syllable name of fitting proportions, I later thought.

Her pack leaned against the tree for an hour, two hours, who really knows except that when she returned it was pretty much dark. Only Tim, who was still relaxing by the dwindling flames, spotted her return, mumble something and head back into the blackness.

Awakening before dawn the next morning, I poked my head from my warm nest to see if the high winds during the night had blown us from our clearing. I slipped out of the tent, breaching the surrounding forest to answer the call of nature.

Soon enough the sun crested atop nearby peaks, burning off the chill of the Yosemite high country. A beam of light from the firey orb blasted down to a giant granite table where none other than Kate lay sans tent.

She needed nothing more than a sleeping bag, we commented, packing away the last of the dishes, food, tents, sleepings bags, stove and other camping what-nots. Nothing but a sleeping bag and some peanut butter.

We would never see Kate again. Not on the trail that day or any other. But she was out there. Whoever she was.