Day 6: The Beginning of the End (of Water)

As I left the youth group I took the last drink of water from my hydration pack. I was down to 85mL of clean water and 85mL of potentially parasite-ridden water. And I was just entering the arid section of Little Yosemite Valley.

I estimated I was about halfway out of the woods, and more than halfway through my water. This didn't bode well.

I tried not to think about it, but when you're low on water and following a river it's kind of hard to not dwell on.

Day 6: Begining the Decent into Civilization

I arose early, determined to get a head start on the day. It was going to be a hot one once I hit the more arid parts my hike.

I broke camp, had a cold breakfast of protein bars—I had no water to waste—and headed out. The day before a cowboy had entered the campground leading a small string of mules and horses, I followed him out of camp that morning. Briefly, I contemplated half-jokingly asking for a ride, but part of me felt that would have soiled the whole point of this trip. Later I would regret my pride.

While I hiked I shut off my brain and set to enjoying the morning sounds of the mountains. There's something so reassuring about the peaceful cacophony of nature—my soul knows I'm home.

After an hour or so I crossed paths with the first of many people I'd talk to that day. A lone hiker inquiring about how much further he had to go before the camp I just left, and general chatting about the quality of our respective hikes.

With this exception my morning was devoid of human interaction. I hike steadily, occasionally pausing to check my map. The concern about water was weighing over me and I was justly worried about my situation.

I hiked over some stunning granite formations, and paused to take pictures of huge trees growing out of the rocks, too determined to let a little thing like no soil deter them from their need to grow.

I hiked above a raging river. Despite the lack of trees, the trail over the rocks frequently took me far enough from the edge that I could only hear the rapids. Occasionally, I was so high above the water that I could see it, but couldn't hear it. This section of trail was powerful and drove me on. Soon, I hit the steepest decent of the day. The switchbacks were impressive. I was no longer walking over the top of solid granite, but I was dropping through trees. The side of the mountain I was walking down was more like a cliff than a mountain, but I hugged the wall and soldiered on.

Finally, there was a break in the trees, with a view of the river I had been hiking above.

As I  carefully and methodically made my way down these switchbacks, I noticed a pair of hikers making their way up. They moved as deliberately as I did, working to conserve their energy. They could see the ascent looming before them and didn't want to exhaust themselves early on. What they couldn't see was the second half of the ascent that continued on the next side of the mountain. Judging from the campsites on the map, they had at least two, possibly three, more hours to go. Though, once they got over this, it was a relatively flat run.

Because I was moving downhill I covered more distance than they, and met them closer to the bottom of the mountain. We stopped to chat. That's when I learned they were a grandfather and son, out for a nice backpacking trip. I adjusted my estimate to a solid three hour minimum to camp. We chatted, and then the older man said that he'd let me get on my way. I laughed and reassured him, "Oh, no, you're just fine. I'm using this as an excuse to rest." We chatted and rested a bit more before parting ways.

I continued down, finally rounding a corner that set me right next to a bridge to cross over the river I had been following all day. I took off my pack, scrambled atop a boulder, and set about enjoying my lunch. At just that moment a large group of youth backpackers (rough estimate places their numbers around 20-30) rounded a bend and similarly decided to stop for lunch. Politely, they passed me before dropping their packs. Though, they were only about five feet away, so it's not like I had a great deal of solitude. I chatted with them for a few minutes before deciding that I should be on my way.

I shouldered my pack and headed out.

The next few hours would bring mostly solitude, sometimes unnervingly so.

Day 5: A Tough Decision

After a blissfully restful fifth day, I set about the evening's chores of making dinner and purifying water.

After fetching fresh water from the river, I pulled out my trusty steripen and went to work. 2 liters later my pen turned off after 15 seconds. I had previously timed the pen so I knew how long it took to purify a liter of water (as of this writing I can't remember exactly, but, I assure you, 15 seconds was too short), so I was able to purify one more liter by turning it on, using it until it died and going again.

I wasn't so lucky with the last liter of water. I tried boiling water to purify it but there wasn't a whole lot of dry wood to be found in the camp ground, and at the elevation I was camping it would take a while for the water to hit purification temperature.

I analyzed my situation. Boiling water was not exactly a good time nor terribly efficient. I toyed with building a carbon filter—it's not like I lack the knowledge.

In the end, decided I'd conserve as much water as possible for the rest of the day, and hike out first thing the next morning. Getting an early start would be key in order to beat the heat of the day. It was also a 14 mile hike out. A grueling day under the best of circumstances. My plan was to hike out and carry a spare liter of non-purified water to use in case of an emergency. Absolute worst case scenario: I would drink contaminated water and head straight home. If I did contract Giardia it would take a few days before I showed symptoms, and if I didn't dilly-dally, I'd be home before I needed to see a doctor. Honestly, I can think of nearly nothing worse than experiencing giardia while driving 1000 miles from Yosemite to Seattle.

Day 5: Was I Lied To?

Day 5 was a rest day. After day four's adventures, and knowing that I had five more days with this as a base camp, I decided to take a day off. I slept in (well, really I got up, lounged around, went back to bed, got up, lounged, and then napped). It was heavenly.

At some point I was out of my tent lounging around the campsite when a large (maybe racoon-sized)  rodent came up into my site and started nosing around. I stared at this animal trying to discern what on earth it could be. It had buck-teeth and liked to sit up on its hind legs. I wanted to believe it was a beaver, but it was all wrong.

The tail was my biggest concern. It was round and fluffy. Much more like a squirrel's tail than what I had been lead to believe a beaver's tail should look like. Had I just stumbled on another lie from my childhood? Did beavers actually have furry tails? Is there something about soaking wet tails on a beaver that make them appear flat? I thought of all the times I had seen beavers in the wild—it had always been on their dams, in the water. I couldn't remember actually seeing a single tail. Bewildered, I concluded this must be some species of beaver. Later, in chatting with a friend, we concluded it must have been a marmot. Having never seen a picture of one until we looked it up to decide if that was the case, you can see why I might have been confused.

Beaver

Marmot

Here are some pictures from Wikipedia to justify my point.

Go ahead and think I'm crazy. I was similarly convinced when I determined that this fluffy-tailed rodent must be some sort of beaver.

Day 4: Drinking from a Rapid

On Day 4 I camped at Merced Lake Campground. It was a backpacker's campground just like Sunrise. However, this one didn't have the biffy unlocked. It also didn't have any running water. Not that I'm complaining that a campground in the High Sierras should have running water, I'm just observing that it did have the capabilities to have running (potable) water, and that water had yet to be turned on for the season.

When I first arrived in camp I noticed there were two other campers in the campground. I was a little excited to have neighbors, but didn't feel like I needed to rush over and share a fire with them. I ran into the female half of the duo on her way back from water getting and asked her where she had dipped her pot (since the lake was a mosquito haven I wasn't looking forward to drinking that). She pointed me in the direction of a large rapid (it was too horizontally short to call it a waterfall) where the river poured into the lake. Off I went.

I filled my water, purified it, made dinner, and set about enjoying the evening.

Day 4: A Level Head is a Terrible Thing

My biggest regret of the entire trip was the fact that I was so focused on doing the right thing to remain safe that it never occurred to me to take the ill-advised photo of the bear I met in the woods.

As a result, I determined to take a photo of the next large or interesting animal I encountered. I got of photo of a mule deer. How boring is that?

Day 4: Lions, and Tigers, and Bears, or Just Bear

Between fording ice cold snow rivers barefoot, getting lost, jumping down cliffs, and being eaten alive by roving packs of mosquitoes, I feel confident in claiming that Day 4 was a long day.

I had just overcome the disheartening setback of believing I was going to be forced to turn around and was settling in to what I wanted to believe was going to be another mile or two of flat terrain hiking, but was forcing myself to believe would be longer.

The trail was pleasantly flat. To the left (North) was an unforested (grassy, and a few trees, but certainly not the dense forest I had been hiking through) hill. It wasn't a sheer wall, but I wouldn't want to have to hike up it. To the right (South) was a sharp granite drop off (I'd call it "sheer", but that wouldn't be fare to the jagged rocks pointing up at me) into the raging Merced River (of photographic record in a previous post).

I hiked along in forest-quality silence, listening to the river and the bird, long since having put my annoying bear bell away. I rounded a corner and up the trail, 50 feet away was the most magnificent specimen of a brown bear I have ever seen. He was truly a sight to behold. 4-5 feet at the withers, he was simply out for a Sunday stroll. Unfortunately, that stroll was towards me.

Now, my entire life I have been told "There are no brown bears in these here woods. Lots of black bears, sure. And, not all black bears are black, many are brown. But, there are no brown bears in the Sierras." Well, Ranger Rick, you lied. I've seen my fair share of black bears in the wild. I know what a black bear looks like. And, I've seen plenty of brown bears (in photos, at the zoo, etc), I know what a brown bear looks like. I'm here to tell you, there's at least one brown bear in Yosemite, and he's spectacular. Also, totally chill.

One thing that I'm particularly pleased about is the fact that I'm capable of remaining calm when calm is the most important emotion to have. I stopped in my tracks and, following the textbooks, clutched my hiking poles in my hands as I raised my arms above my head and smacked them together while shouting "HEY! GET OUTTA HERE!"

As anticipated, it worked. He turned and ambled away. Pausing at one point to look back and see if I was still there. I smacked my poles together and called out, again. He turned back away and ambled into the dense forest ahead of us.

I waited a minute or two before heading down the trail into the woods behind him. But, only after I took my bear bell out of its bag.