"Andre," I said, "we need to check Alvin's backpack." You know, to make sure it's kosher.

I pull out a pair of binoculars. Three pounds. Three pairs of wool pants. A Policeman's mag-light flashlight. Four pounds. This stuff is contraband to my brothers. A flask of whiskey. One pound. Another flask of Bacardi Rum. Contraband. A one quart bottle of Night Train, a malt liquor – so cheap that bottles of it are routinely found in abandoned transients' nests. Another one quart bottle of Night Train. And, a third one quart bottle. This one - wine spritzer. Were Alvin to attempt to haul this weighty pack up into the Sierra Range, he would likely not have made it.

Rule number one. Shave the ounces.

At base camp, when my brother's were asleep, I ask Alvin if he wants to clean off those bottles of Night Train. He agrees. This is our way of shaving the ounces. Night Train tastes like Robitussin, looks like cough syrup, and smells like a hospital. To Alvin, who grew up in the part of L.A. where this stuff is popular with itinerants, Night Train is comfort food.

In morning, we leave base camp for the mountains on a perfect morning. Not a cloud in the sky. It seems those weekend walks have made a difference. I am feeling good with the weight of my backpack on the incline. It’s Jeffrey Pines and craggy boulders and mountain fields of manzanita. It is a packing accomplishment.

I arrive at our first camp by myself. Marvel at the lake, the huge mountain peak in the background, and then I sit down, exhausted. I feel a huge weight on my back, but the backpack is already off.

I guess that the rest of my group is to the south of me, so I climb a small hill to be able to look in that direction. The hill, only about a hundred feet high, took a full ten minutes to climb. Something was wrong with me.

“Lightheaded,” I said when I met the group. “How bad?” Hans said. “Bad.”
Alvin would soon admit the same. “Bad,” he says.
“Altitude sickness.” Hans says.

See also: headache, nausea, vomiting, trouble sleeping, delirium.