I started walking, always choosing downslope. The forest was pretty open, all pines and scrub, and though there was a lot of deadfall, it wasn't a difficult hike compared to some stuff I'd done. My climbing shoes had zero padding to them, and it didn't take long for my feet to start hurting, the sort of thudding ache that comes from stomping around barefoot on asphalt. I started trying to walk toe-heel, which was a lot more tiring than regular walking, but hurt less. At least it gave me something to focus on other than pain.

The lack of water left me with a headache and dryness in my throat that kept making me cough. I did my best to ignore it, forcing myself to keep moving while the headache pounded under my skull and everything sort of faded around me. I usually liked to admire the landscape while hiking, paying attention to birdsong and the shapes of the trees and stones around me, but I didn't have the energy to appreciate nature. I just kept plodding downhill, always downhill, hoping that just past the trees would be the glint of water, and salvation.

Sudden sunlight beat against my face, and I stopped, blinking in confusion. The trees had ended, and I stood on the edge of a meadow. Marmots, fat and happy, trundled around or busily chewed on grass. A few sparrows scratched at dirt; one took a dust bath in the dirt outside a marmot-hole. I stared across the green, grassy meadow, so rich and full of life, and so very, very without water.

Tears threatened, and I covered my mouth with my uninjured hand, holding my mouth closed and shutting my eyes as I shuddered. The basin must not have been deep enough to hold water year-round. I'd imagined an all-roads-lead-to-Rome situation, with little streams joining big streams until they were rivers. But the high Sierra was rugged and rocky, and of course there would be places where the granite made a cup and not a valley.

Okay. Okay. I knew I had three days or so before the dehydration would get me. It had only been a few hours, not even half the day. Things weren't to the point where the only option was to lie down and die.

"New plan," I said, my voice hoarse and hurting. I'd screamed my throat raw.

Downhill hadn't worked, so the next option was up. If I got to a good vista, I would be able to scan the landscape and see if there were any visible lakes or decent routes. Even if I didn't see anything useful, the task gave me something to do instead of curl up and rock back and forth. Catatonia felt like a wonderful option for part of my mind, but I wanted to survive, and the survival instinct overrode even the grief and devastation.