“The gas just ran out,” Dustin reported as I pulled myself out of the tent, still foggy with sleep.
“Huh?” I cleverly asked. The comment made no sense. We’d opened a brand new isobutane fuel cannister for our first breakfast just three days ago. Those things claim to be good for “24 boils.” I’d kept careful count. We were only at boil #13. I hadn’t planned to start worrying until 18 at least.
“You can try it,” he said, “but it went out while I was boiling water for coffee. I think it got mostly warm.”
I fiddled with the stove, shook the gas cannister, tried one more time. Of course he had been right.
“But we just opened it!” I protested. “We only used thirteen boils! Well, thirteen and a half.” I regarded his coffee preparations.
“You want some mostly warm tea?” he asked, holding the pot out.
I held out my bowl with the teabag in it. “What about my ramen?” I asked, mournfully.
Last night we had eaten our last pouch meal, leaving for today one oatmeal, two granola bars, one package of ramen and a handful of mostly-crushed snacks. The chocolate bars had melted and resolidified so many times by now, we weren’t sure how to eat them (“tear off a corner and squeeze it out like toothpaste” being the best suggestion). I had decided to eat the ramen for breakfast, and I had really been looking forward to it. “And your oatmeal?” I added as an afterthought.
“Sorry,” Dustin said. At least there had been tea, and it had nearly hot. I chewed on my cold, squashed granola bar glumly, trying to feel grateful the stove had waited this long to let us down.
Thunder rolled.
I looked up, surprised. What I had taken for the usual morning smoke cover was apparently legitimate clouds, and glancing off to the west, I saw that they meant to bring rain.
“Everything is falling apart!” I wailed, abandoning my granola bar and running toward the tent. If it rained on our camp in its current state, all our gear would get soaked. “We gotta go. Fast. I’ll do sleeping bags, you get into your boots!” The marmot-munched boots were not an easy-on affair.
I was stuffing the tent into its bag when the rain started. Organization went to hell as we tried to get everything into our packs before it got too wet. The rain wasn’t much more than a drizzle, but wet gear is the worst. It’s heavy and it gets smelly so fast.
We decamped in record time. We draped our ponchos classily over ourselves and our enormous packs, making us look like badly wrapped leftovers. We plodded down the trail through fits and starts of rain. Once, when it had been dry for a solid half hour, we dared to the ponchos. Ten minutes later we regretted this decision, and left them on until the sun came out strong enough to start steaming us in our wrappings.
We were the only people this classy on the trail. 
A wet thing admiring a wet thing.
Our south fork camping zone spilled us out almost immediately into Cascade Canyon proper, one of the most popular hiking trails in the park. For days, we’d seen maybe one or two other groups of hikers every hour or so, sometimes going hours at a time without seeing another soul. Now the people appeared more regularly, and grew thicker with each passing mile. By the time we saw our first trail sign for Jenny Lake, there were no longer any moments when we were the only people we could see on the trail. I grumbled when nimble day hikers carrying nothing but water bottles failed to step off the path to let me and my giant pack pass, but most people on the trail were very polite.
The crowd reached a crescendo at Inspiration Point, a lovely overlook on Jenny Lake. I knew there would be people here, but with a 700-foot elevation gain over a mile, I had not expected quite so many people. Young people, old people, lots of babies. We paused only for the briefest moment to take in the view. The end of our trail was in sight, and the vista, inspiring though it might have been if you hadn’t seen all the things we’d seen in the last four days, could not compete against the crowds and my urge to be done with my backpack forever.
That last mile is always so long. Our goal was the Jenny Lake shuttle dock, a ride that would cost us $20 and save us 2.5 miles of hiking. WORTH IT.
I got worried when I saw the first sign, informing me the wait to get on the shuttle would be 45 minutes from this point. Like waiting in like for a ride at Disneyland, but with a much heavier purse to carry. The line wasn’t there, though, so we kept going. We passed the sign for thirty minutes, then fifteen minutes, without slowing. We arrived at the dock and kept walking. We walked right onto the boat like we owned the place.
I collapsed onto the bench seat, my backpack squashed between my face and the back of the seat in front of me. “Worth it,” I muttered again.
The ride was short and lovely and once on the other side, we had no trouble procuring a car shuttle service to pick us up and take us back to our car at the other trailhead. Visions of my godmother’s clean shower and guest bed started wafting through my mind as we rumbled down the gravel road.
Thither & Yon 