After yesterday's emotional low point we headed this morning for a physical low point. The drop from Rae Lakes to Woods Creek: 3 hours. The trail down was by turns beautiful and downright ugly. I took several nice photos: Fin Dome, which dominated the sky for much of the early hike...lush glades...rocky slopes, above which hulked spectacular mountains. Too bad I'll never get to see them.

We arrived at the amazing suspension bridge at 11:30 AM. It was a wonky contraption. As soon as one set foot on it, the whole stretch set into motion as if alive. I had camera in hand. My grip on it was not the best. Three or four steps and I realized that I'd better turn around and take Mom's trekking poles. She was gonna want to use her hands. I made it back off the bridge, which bucked like a funhouse ride, and stuffed the camera into my belt-mounted Sun-Dog ® camera case and took her poles. Back across the unsteady affair I went, backpack bumping along as I gripped the cables with my right hand and kept balance with my left.

CRUNCH.

Something hit the rocks below. Something plastic, or glass, or metal. Or all three. In a millisecond, and in slow motion, I knew what it was. I didn't even have to look down at my hip to know my camera was gone.

With an amazing amount of calm I got to the other side and made my way to the riverbank. I shucked my pack on the rocky shore. The river ran thick and clear over a bed of smooth rocks. Noting something un-rocklike in the current, I reached in, one foot on the shore, one balanced on a rock in the stream, and one hand on another rock. It was my lens. Incredibly, it looked okay. It might even work.

Hmm.the bayonet grooves had snapped off. Maybe not. Mom made it over the bridge and went downstream to look for camera bits. I fixed my eye on an odd rock in a thick cluster of rapids. Donning sandals, I waded in. Reached. It was my camera.

"My camera's dead," I told her, and held it up for her to see. The body was cracked wide open, electronic innards laid bare and dripping. The back panel flapped wide. The roll of film-everything from Kearsarge Lakes the previous day-twisted in the sunlight. I tried to close it. I heard a noise, like a high-pitched whistle. Putting it to my ear I heard it's dying wheeze, like the charge of a flash bulb in reverse. I wanted to cry, but I didn't. It was just a camera. Sure, it was a $600 Minolta, but it was still just a camera. I gathered the body parts, having had to remove the battery because motors kept trying to turn (even when I turned it off) and put it in its case.