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.

Day 4: Lost and Found

As you might recall from Day 2, due to storms downing trees and general lack of off season use, the trail was hard to spot in some areas.

As I crested the highest point I would for the day I started down the trail. The forest was thick and beautiful, and the downed trees were plenty. As I scrambled around one I saw there was a bunch crisscrossing the trail, not entirely unlike a beaver dam, but on the side of a mountain. I skirted the dam, and in so doing utterly lost the trail. The forest was so thick I quite literally couldn't see the trail for the trees.

Unconcerned, I pressed on. I knew the general direction I needed to go, and back tracking was likely not going to do me any good. And, anyway, looking at the map, I was sure to hit a clearing soon enough. Also, at the base of the mountain I was climbing down was a huge river I was sure to not miss. The trail followed it for roughly 3 miles. I was certain to find it sooner than later.

Then I broke through the trees and saw a large rock to the front and above me. Scrambling to the top of this rock would give me enough visibility to hopefully see the trail.

I didn't see the trail, but I did see that there was a little forest between me and the massive granite slope I'd have to hike down no matter what. I set my course, climbed off the rock, and off I went. Still not terribly concerned with how lost I may or may not be. I could easily get myself out of this one.

I emerged from the forest, yet again, and looked down the rock face towards the mighty Cathedral River searching for the tell tale signs of trail: downed trees with portions sawed off and tossed to the side, unnatural positioning of boulders on the granite, or, heck, even actual trail. I quickly caught sight of it. There, down the steeply sloping granite, was a trail clearly marked by those very things I sought.

I started down the rock towards the trail. Happy to know I was soon to be on the right path. Then I came upon my first real obstacle. I 6 foot cliff stood between me and the trail. I could backtrack, but I was certain to get re-lost trying that. And, where would that put me? Anyway, it was only 6 feet.

I shrugged off my pack and dropped it over the edge. It landed with a dull thud. Then it was my turn. The rock I was on intersected another rock forming a nice right angle. My plan was to brace myself down these two walls. There was another large boulder feet away from where I was headed, but not attached to either rock. This would prove important momentarily.

I scooted on my butt towards the edge of the cliff. Then, in an ill thought out moment went back-towards-the-wall down (for those reading this for survival tips, ALWAYS go down a cliff nose-in). As it turns out, I wasn't the only thing to see the junction as the perfect spot to get down the cliff—so did a thin stream of water. Which proved to make the rock a little slick. I slid down the cliff, pushed off the adjoining wall with my feet, flipped in mid-air and, amazingly, landed on my pack, with my head a little too close for comfort to the aforementioned free-standing monolith.

As I regrouped I thought to myself, "Wow, mom's biggest fear very nearly came true. What if I had missed? I could have slid down this steep, slick, granite plunging to my death!" To be fair, I certainly wouldn't have plunged towards my death, but hitting my head, or even slipping down the rock face definitely wouldn't have been particularly pleasant. Nor, would I have been likely to have been found.

Grateful and regrouped, I hefted on my pack, adjusted it, and headed down towards river crossing number 2. I'd spend the rest of my trip constantly adjusting my pack. Tragically, when I dropped it so unceremoniously, I bent the frame irreparably. More on that later, I'm sure.

Day 4: Seasonal Streams

The thing about seasonal streams and creeks is that they seldom show up on topographical maps. When they do, the maps frequently fail to show them at their peak size.

The thing about backpacking in the high country in mid-spring (also know as "early in the [backpacking] season") is that there is a lot of snow melt and likely more seasonal streams and creeks than the map you're carrying probably bothered to make note of.

I started day 4 knowing I was going to have to hike through and over the top of the marsh meadow I had previously suffered through on Day 2. Since I was camping at a high enough elevation I knew the ground would be much more firm first thing in the morning, thus, as soon as I woke I struck camp, visited the posh biffy for the last time, and headed out—hoping that I wouldn't have the pleasure of nearly losing my shoe to the marsh gods, again.

The hike through the meadow was uneventful and my shoes were safe from danger (though more than a time or two I had to take the higher road—sorry mama nature). At the Northern most end of the meadow was a river I knew I had to cross. Using the map as a guide I didn't anticipate it being a big concern.

That was a mistake.

When I reached the river I quickly reevaluated. It was wide, but slow. While it didn't appear terribly deep, it was certainly too deep to walk across without getting my boots wet. I don't know about you, but hiking all day in wet boots is not my idea of a good time. Also, blisters. I knew what I had to do, and immediately sat down to roll up my pants and take off my boots. Once off, I knotted the laces together, shoved my socks in the toes, tossed the boots around my neck, unbuckled my pack, turned upstream, and stepped in. And immediately wanted to hop back out. However, I knew I either had to press forward through ice cold snow melt, or brave the snow field of doom from Friday. It wasn't really a choice on which I wavered. I slowly made my way as quickly as possible across the 20 foot river whining vocally to the birds and bugs flittering about.

Once I reached the opposing shore I nearly ran out of the water to a downed tree stump. I shivered as I dried my reddened feet with my socks and redressed myself. I sat for an extra moment laughing to myself as I watched drop after drop of freshly thawed snow fall into the river. It had waded through, quite literally, fresh snow run off. I just had to make it up this next mile or so, and then it was all down hill from there. Though I knew based on elevation and the melting pattern of the snow I would likely not see much more, I was keenly aware that once over this mountain I'd be blissfully out of snowfields. Thankfully, the map said I had to cross only five more rivers and seasonal creeks (in total) before reaching camp.

Once again, the map lied.

I ended up crossing eight more rivers that day (only one of which I'll allow a downgrade to stream). Each time I repeated the same shoe removal pattern, but, by the third river I had decided to dry my feet with my pack towel rather than my socks. It was a much better choice.

As the day wore on I started to question the accuracy of the rivers marked on my map. But more, I began to become concerned about how I was going to cross the raging river I had been hiking beside. When the trail turned I was pleased to see a well built bridge beckoning me. I crossed and decided to have lunch at the bottom of the waterfall I would soon see, right before crossing the penultimate river of the day.

Reaching the bottom of those falls was a magnificent experience. Though, by far, not the most grand that Yosemite has to offer, they were certainly the most spiritual I observed. I wept, and chose to not eat there, but, rather, held the experience close as I walked on.

A mile or so past the base of the falls I reached my penultimate river crossing. Another bridge. This one afforded a great lunch stop and I refilled my water bottles while sitting in the shade of the forest.

After lunch I hiked on, through a mile-long swarm of man-eating mosquitoes, towards my final river crossing. I came to another bridge and smiled, this was the last river, from here I had 2.6 miles to the camp ground. Then I crossed another, smaller, bridge. And another, even smaller, and yet another, smaller-er bridge. They were like Russian nesting dolls—when were these bridges going to end? Honestly, though, I'm grateful for them, though the streams really weren't worth putting on the map (and don't make my count of how many rivers I had to cross that day), the grooves they had cut into the earth would have made crossing them a challenge.

I pushed forward through another swarm of mosquitoes (this time pausing to defend myself with a nice slathering of DEET) towards my goal.

I rounded a bend, and looked up at the path before me. Then I stopped dead in my tracks. There was no way this was possible. The map had to be lying. The clearly marked trail markings were wrong. It was a sick joke. No. freaking. way. What I saw ahead of me on the well worn trail were two boulders—the shortest of which was at least 10 feet in height—and through them, the trail continued on the granite rock. Just on the other side of the boulders, crossing, nay, raging over the trail was a river. This monstrous rapid was un-marked on my map, no, wait... maybe it was this seasonal creek right here..., who are they kidding?! This was no seasonal creek? How was I going to cross this safely?

I set my jaw and figured I would find out when I got there, after all, the river was still fifty feet away. Maybe there was a bridge upstream that I couldn't see. Every steep was labored, I dreaded the sure knowledge that I was going to have to turn around. There was no way I would be able to cross it. Perverse curiosity drove my feet forward. Then, just as I was about to reach the gap in the boulders, I was delivered. The sharp left turn in the trail had been concealed by the rocky terrain. I wasn't set to cross this river, I was set to follow it due East for another mile or so.

Lest you think I'm exaggerating the ferocity of the river, I snapped this downstream facing photo after stepping between the boulders of doom, intent to provide photographic evidence that I'm not being unjustly dramatic.

This was the last river I encountered on my way to my day's destination. And, blissfully, one I didn't have to cross. But, for those keeping track at home, ultimately, I did have to cross three major bridges and ford six rivers. It was a long, wet, adventurous day. And, the adventures weren't over.

Day 3: Let This be a Lesson

One of my buddies likes to tell the story of going camping with his brother. It goes like this, "So, I said to him, 'don't forget to pick up batteries for the steripen' (water purifier). And, guess what he forgot? The batteries! And, there we were, stuck with no purifier (since the batteries had died) and were boiling water for the day. We poured the boiling water into the first guy's knock-off nalgene, and it just crumpled! Then we ran out of fuel for our stove, so that was all of the water we were going to have for the day!"

The lesson here: always have two methods of purifying your water, and make sure you take extra batteries.

While I was packing for my trip I remembered this story and grabbed an extra battery for my steripen.

Day 3 of my trip was the moment I discovered: steripens take TWO batteries. I pulled out one of the dead ones, put in my one good battery, and crossed my fingers. If that failed, well, I'd just boil water.

Day 3: In Which I Rest

Day 3's adventures are pretty limited.

I woke in the morning and tried to boil water for breakfast. Building up a fire proved challenging, so I just ate some protein bars. Then I decided to find a way across the stream to the outhouse. I was successful in that and made a number of trips that day without incident.

The most important part of Day 3 was getting my boots and clothes dry. Despite the snow on the ground, the day was warm, as long as I was in the sun. Thus I passed the day lounging on cut tree stumps placed around the fire pit, moving around as the sun passed through the trees, trying to stay warm. I wore a short sleeved shirt, long johns, and no shoes (since they were the main focus of my drying out efforts). I also read.

Prior to heading to California I had gone to the used book store and purchased three ratty paper back books. My intent: pack them up and burn them as I read. Thus, they'd be great fire starter and I'd have less weight to pack down. By chapter 2 of the first book I couldn't burn any more. So, I destroyed a book, made it unreadable for anyone else, and ended up packing the thing down anyway. Oh well.

The only hole in my plan was my failure to put on sunblock. I ended up with a thin sunburn on the back of my neck as well as a patch of sunburn on the top of each foot. This little burn made lacing my boots up tightly a joy.

Day 2: Conclusion

I picked my way through the marsh attempting to keep my feet as dry as possible. I had already gotten snow packed in my boots, so there was no way they wouldn't need to be dried out, but I was determined to mitigate how much drying out they needed.

One thing that's important while backpacking on heavily traversed trails is to be certain to stay on the path. Minimizing impact helps ensure that it's there to be enjoyed in the future. So, when you see multiple trails running inches from each other, it's hard to know which on to pick. The easy answer: which ever one the rangers haven't marked off with sticks or rocks. The slightly medium answer: which ever one is older (i.e. the deepest groove). The problem with parallel paths in marsh land, excuse me, meadows, is that the deepest groove is likely also a water channel. And if not that, then a mud pit. When it wasn't one of those two, I aimed for the deepest groove. When it was, well, I'm sorry to those who come after me, but, yeah...

Finally I reached Sunrise High Sierra Camp. High Sierra Camps during the season have cabins set up for paying customers to sleep in. During the off season, they have cement pads. At all times there is a backpackers' campground that backpackers can sleep in free of charge. These campgrounds have vault biffys to help reduce impact to the forest. As I was walking through the Camp looking for the backpacker's campground (and biffy,* man, I had to pee), I tried hard to follow the signs that declared, "Give plants a growing chance, stay on the trails!" Which I did very well, until I sunk into a mud pit--up to my mid-shin. And, there it was, in that instant I knew I was taking a rest day to let my shoes dry out. I also knew I was done staying on the trail, if it looked problematic. The only problem was, the campground was in the snow.

Now, the entire campground wasn't covered in snow, it was patchy, but there was snow. Also, a sad fact of high impact campgrounds is that most of the downed wood was well picked over; and, that which wasn't picked over was wet. From, you know, the snow. I finally found a good camping spot, near the stream that went through the campground, and the outhouse. I pitched my tent, and headed to the biffy. Wouldn't you know, another obstacle. This time I just let nature have its way. The river was too wide and swift to try crossing that evening. And, since it was getting late, I wasn't about to try my luck. I just dug a cat hole. Then I built a very tiny and not terribly warm fire and heated up some water for dinner.

Here's a protip: water may boil at 167.9°F at 8000', but that doesn't mean it's hot. Which translates into not being hot enough to cook your food (unless you let it boil or sit longer). I didn't. My food was undercooked and lukewarm. Fortunately, I only slightly cared. I scarfed down my dinner and climbed into my tent to put on every stitch of dry clothes I had, and remove every stitch of wet clothes. Then I climbed into my sleeping bag and passed out.

I woke quite cold in the middle of the night. My legs were freezing (though, thankfully, not literally). I pulled my rain shell over the top of my sleeping bag and tried to get back to sleep. As I lie there listening to the river babble past I heard, for the second time in as many nights, the heavy steps of a bear investigating my camp ground. I didn't make a sound, and eventually fell asleep.

*biffy = Bathroom In the Forest For You. Cute, yeah?

Day 2: Lost

The trail continued upwards. Then, it disappeared. There was a little snow, but not much, and the trail seemed to just vanish. With no footprints in the snow and no indication of trail, I picked a course, set a carrion and moved forward. I aimed for a spot where I could get a good view of my surroundings and possibly spot the trail. It wasn't working. I soon determined that I must have chosen poorly, so I retraced my steps, knocked down my carrion, and took the other possible path option. In my 5 minutes of wandering I stumbled across a fire ring. I made note: just in case I needed to camp suddenly, or I was really lost, I had a known place.

I rounded a bend and saw the largest carrion I've ever seen. Clearly I wasn't the first to get lost. It was about 18" tall, had 3 layers of horizontal rocks, and wasn't going anywhere. I moved forward, glad to know I was on the right track.

Then I hit a snow field. I had been following some snowshoe tracks for a while, but they disappeared (either I took a wrong turn and didn't know it, or the weather had erased them). Standing on top of a granite field there was no trail to be seen. I sited the direction I knew I needed to head and moved forward.

Soon, I started post holing. Not your average sink-6-inches-into-the-snow post holing. No, I got the good up-to-my-thighs-or-higher post holes. I'd call it awesome, but it sucked. I looked around. Snow stretched out in all directions, no edge was strategically closer than the other, and back tracking meant going up a steep incline. From my near-ground-level position I picked a path, struggled to my feet, and carefully made my way down the snow field towards a patch of earth.

I should pause here and comment that when the ranger warned me about snow I decided to pack up snow shoes, just in case. This would have been the perfect moment to stop and put them on. However, in the mighty tradition of people who have the gear and don't use it, I forgot I had them. All of my efforts were on avoiding more post holing, keeping a good line towards where I knew I should be headed, trying to find the trail or a river to follow, and not panicking.  The funny thing is, I never really started to panic, but I frequently reminded myself, "You're fine. You know what you're doing. Don't panic and it'll be fine."

I paused on the damp, but not snowy, patch of ground to re-take my bearings. I was standing on the banks of a tributary. "All water runs downhill, and a tributary must meet the river," I thought. "The trail crosses the river, then into this big valley, and off the edge of the valley is Sunrise High Sierra Camp." I started following the stream. The stream widened into a marshy valley. I didn't really want to cross it, but I knew that I'd eventually have to, so I crossed and continued down stream all the while looking for the trail. Soon I saw horseshoe tracks in the muddy marsh and commented out loud, "Hmm, someone must have come off the trail to water their horses! If I follow this I'll be on the trail in no time." It worked.

A few minutes later I was walking along a well marked path, enjoying the lack of snow. Unfortunately, I was enjoying it too early. The trail was covered with patches of snow. Since it was last afternoon the snow was soft and post holing happened often. By this point I had remembered the snow shoes, but the patches of snow were too short to really justify putting on the hassle of putting them on and taking them off for what would end up being at least a mile, possibly two.

When I happened upon a snow covered downed tree that was the crossing point for a fast moving stream I assessed the situation and concluded that snowshoes would only be dangerous and I'd have to move carefully and cautiously. So I did. Nearly completely across the tree I saw I had to step on a branch to make my next move. I contemplated the likely branch location based on snow pack and put my foot down. Unfortunately, I guessed a little off center and my foot slid right off the branch and down towards the river into air. I finally stopped when my groin discovered exactly where the branch was. I moved my foot around, trying to feel for a surface that I could brace against to push myself off the branch. When I concluded that wasn't going to be an option I decided the solution was to crawl. I was no longer trying to stand, just to crawl, and that I could do and slowly pull my leg out of the snow. One benefit of crawling vs walking is that you have a greater surface area, thus reducing the chances of post holing (much the same way a snowshoe works). It worked and I safely crossed the river.

There were a few more places of snow pack where crawling was the best solution, and then, I was out of the snow and into a meadow. I know this because there were a couple of signs instructing those with stock to not graze or water them in the meadow.

Fact: The sign lied. A dirty dirty dirty lie. I was in a marsh.

Day 2: The Supidest Idea I've Ever Had

I knew the day held a pretty steep stretch of trail, and I needed to get over it before the day got too late. What I didn't realize was exactly how steep that stretch of trail was. Over 3/4 of a trail mile I gained 800 feet. For those of you following along at home, that works out to be slightly more than a 20% grade. I feel I can call that steep.

As I trudged up the side of the mountain, slowly putting one foot in front of the other, resisting the urge to sit down and rest, I cursed myself for this whole trip being the stupidest idea I had ever had. When I was sure I couldn't continue on, I found a place to pause—just long enough to reset, I told myself. I set my pack on a rock, still strapped to my back. Then, I slid my butt up on the rock, leaning against the pack resting. Only then did I look around.

The fog was thick just away from where I was, so I snapped this picture down mountain. I don't think it does justice to the incline, but, there you have it—the worst switchbacks I've ever had the privilege of swearing at.

As I rested the fog parted and I watched a storm blow in. And, then, just as rapidly, blow out. The whole while, I stared at this view (which helped to reset my resentment of the mountain I just climbed). I'm really grateful that at the moment of my deepest exhaustion I didn't have to suddenly find shelter at the top of a mountain during what would have likely been an electrical storm.

Day 2: Observing Creation

One thing I love about camping is forgetting what time it is. I get up when I get up and I bed down when I bed down. The time these things happen doesn't matter.

Thus began day 2. I woke up with the sun, struck camp, made breakfast, and headed out. As I hiked I got lost in the amazing views and vistas. At one point I was pretty sure I had reached the top of the world and could see all of creation stretched out before me. It was, in a word, magnificent. Once I happened upon this view I took a break for lunch. How could I not?

I meet the only people I would see for the next few days while I was resting. I should have asked them what their plans were, but I was too busy enjoying my spectacular break to be terribly concerned with strangers.

Day 1: Raining Rangers

After I passed over the top of Nevada Fall the number of the people on the trail dropped substantially. And, by that I mean from hundreds there were now ones. It was suddenly just me, my thoughts, and the sound of the waterfall and excited chatter fading away as I hiked into the back country.

Twenty feet later I was met by a group of park rangers. They chatted with me about where I was headed, and what my plans were, then they asked for my permit. I furnished it, then they checked my bear canister, returned my permit and wished me a good trip.

Forty feet later I was met by a second group of park rangers. They didn't really chat with me that long before asking for my permit. I was tired, and just wanted to get going, and, frankly, my permit wasn't exactly in a convenient location (I didn't have pockets in my pants, so it was in my pack) and getting it required effort that I didn't feel like expending. I was a little short with them. The main ranger I was speaking to returned my abruptness in kind. Then I asked, "Am I going to meet yet another group of rangers around the next corner that is also going to ask for my permit? I mean, how many of you guys are there?" Then he got it.

"Did you run into another set of rangers?"

"Yeah, 3 minutes ago. And, they asked me for my permit then, too."

"They did? Oh, we're the permit checking rangers, they were supposed to let us go first."

Well, that explained it, but it certainly didn't fix the fact that I had been less than chipper with them. And, I didn't feel like fixing it then, either. I was tired, and ready to pitch my tent for the night. Unfortunately, I had obtained what is called a "pass through" permit which means I couldn't camp in the first camp ground called Little Yosemite Valley and had another 2 or 3 miles left in my day.

So, I hiked on.

I hit Little Yosemite Valley and ran into a couple who had passed me at the outset of the day. "Hey! You made it!" the guy said.

"Yup! Well, sort of, I have another 2 miles yet today."

We chatted briefly, then I pressed on. As soon as I passed the edge of LYV I started looking for campsites. Which, you might be surprised to know, is kind of hard. You have to camp in a previously impacted area 100 feet from the trail in an area not visible from the trail. Trying to find a fire ring that you can't see from the trail while on the trail is, well, that hard.

But, find one I did, and I set up my tent, cooked dinner, and settled in for a night of rest.

That evening I knew my plan had already changed. You see, I wasn't 100% sure I was outside of the area where I wasn't supposed to be camping. So, to avoid a fine or getting kicked out or yelled at or whatever punishment they could impose, I decided I'd pack up and head to Sunrise High Sierra camp the next day.

Day 1: Mist Trail

As I set out from Happy Isles I passed a ranger with a gaggle of junior ranger hopefuls. The ranger was talking with the kids about the wildlife in the area when she spotted me and took the opportunity for an object lesson. "Now, see, there's a hiker with a bear canister on her pack." I paused and let her talk about my bear canister, and how it was important to keep food away from bears. Once she finished we exchanged smiles, and she thanked me for stopping, and I carried on my way.

The first part of the trail is pretty easy. And, by first part, I mean, the first the first <2 miles, up until the point where you have to make your first trail choice. Do you take the Mist Trail which offers spectacular waterfall views, and also some, well, misting? Or, do you opt for the less wet, less spectacular, much less steep, JMT (John Muir Trail)?

In a previous trip, I took the JMT. This time, I opted for the Mist Trail.

One thing to note about the Mist Trail is that it lives up to its name. Another thing to note is that it's amazingly popular (apparently the most popular trail in all of Yosemite. I believe it).

Other things of interest:
It's freaking steep.
The trail is made up almost entirely of granite steps (reportedly 500 of them. I have no idea, I didn't count).
The trail is about 2 people-wide. If you find the need to pause, it's best to aim for a switchback (of which there are plenty) or a slightly wider spot where you stopping won't hold up the 100 people behind you.
Since the trial follows a waterfall, the granite steps are quite slick from the water.
Climbing steep, slick stairs with a 50-60 pound pack on is, as you might be surprised to hear, slow going.

I picked my way up the trail, frequently aiming for wide spots on the trail to stop, I chatted with fellow hikers, and even leap-frogged with a few. Most people who talked with me were interested in where I was headed and how long I'd be out. I tried to not tell many people that I was going it alone—you never know who the crazy murdering murders are.

As I approached the last 1/4 mile or so of the accent to Nevada Fall I paused and chatted briefly with a couple whom I had been leap-frogging. In accented English the husband (presumably) asked, "Can I try carrying your pack?"

I smiled and laughed, "It's really heavy!"

"I know." he insisted, "can I try?"

I assessed the situation: My pack weighed nearly 60 pounds. What were the chances that he'd get very far with it? He was hiking with a partner, so, what were the chances that he'd take off running and abandon her? And, then, the kicker, he had his own backpack (a school pack of the Jansport variety) which, once I agreed to let him try my pack, he asked me if I minded carrying. I smiled and picked up his pack—confident I was getting the better end of this bargain.

Then, he surprised me.

He turned and headed up trail at a good solid hiking (not backpacking) speed. I easily kept up, but didn't feel like I was going too slow. The entire time his companion laughed and took photos of him. I smiled and followed, enjoying my reprieve.

We reached the top and he took off my pack and set it down. We stood around chatting and taking photos. His wife asked, "How heavy was it?" "About 50-60 pounds." he reassured her. I noted that I was impressed that he had carried it so easily. "Oh," he told me, "I used to carry 80 pound packs when I was younger."

Given that he was roughly my age, "younger" could really only mean 17-25ish? right? I didn't ask.

We kept talking and then I asked where he was from. His reply instantly cleared everything up for me: "Nepal."

My conclusion: I totally had my pack carried by a Sherpa! I didn't ask, but I feel confident assuming such. The one thing I wished I had done was ask him to take a photo with me. That would have been pretty cool.

Instead, you get a photo of my pack (and arm!) at the top of Nevada Fall. You're welcome.

(Note the bear canister the ranger pointed out to the kids. For those who are aware that the bears have figured out how to open the bear vault, never fear, this is the new and improved (hopefully more bear resistant) 2-click version).

The Plan

My evil plan (as registered with Park Rangers) was as followed:
Day 1-2: Enter from Happy Isles Nature center, head up through Little Yosemite Valley and camp somewhere past there for 2 nights.
Day 3: Head up to Sunrise High Sierra Camp.
Days 4-7: Day hike using Sunrise as a base camp.
Day 8-10: Head over to Merced Lake High Sierra Camp.
Day 11: Hike out.

When I was getting my permit the ranger cautioned me that there was snow up around Sunrise, and I may have to make alternate plans, and would definitely have to use a map and compass to navigate some sections of trail. In addition to the map and compass (which were never not coming), I took snow shoes.

Stage 4: Finish Line

After the entire race made its way through my home town I rushed to my car and then drove the hour down to Clovis as fast as a I could. Trying desperately to simultaneously beat the race to the finish line (keeping in mind that I had still had to park and find a place to spectate) and not get a ticket.

I managed both, and was able to hang out for 15 or 20 minutes before the riders came barreling through. Here's me at the finish line. I'm off screen slightly to the left. Promise I'm there. In case you can't tell from my pictures, there were a whole lot more spectators in Clovis.

Here is Peter Sagan claiming his 4th stage victory in as many stages. The man is a beast!

In the gaps between groups the riders and press like to travel backwards on the course. It's definitely much easier than trying to go through the crowd.

And, there you have it, Stage 4 of the AMGEN Tour of California. I'm definitely going back in the future. Maybe I'll even make it out to the Tour of Colorado (because "USA Pro Cycling Challenge" is just a stupid name).

Stage 4: Sprint Finish

I spent the day wandering through my home town looking for something interesting to do. Fact: small towns are not terribly interesting unless you live there or have people to see. Needing to kill time in a small town is why people turn to drugs. Well, probably not. But, the fact is: I didn't want to go hiking since I was going to be doing that for 10 days starting the next day, and I didn't really have people I wanted to see. And, there aren't exactly any "sights" except Yosemite and the lake.

Most importantly of all, I wanted to have a good parking spot so I could rush to see the finish line, if traffic was clear enough, and I also wanted to have a good view point.

I shouldn't have worried.

Turns out the only people who turned out were retirees who had nothing better to do and a few volunteers.

I was able to pick a prime spot just the other side of the sprint finish line. From here I knew I'd see all the action.

I stood there at the sprint finish line talking with the other spectators—many of whom knew next to nothing about bike racing. I had the AMGEN Tour Tracker app on my phone (note to all pro tours: this app freaking ROCKS! Love. it.) and was able to see where the racers were, and once the live coverage started was able to watch that, too. The people around me were interested in it, so we watched a bit together and I shared some cycling facts.

And, then, the racers were upon us.

And quicker than they arrived, they were gone. I tried to take some video, but it sucked--they were just moving too fast!

One rider, for no apparent reason (we were already past the sprint line, and they weren't going to be climbing for another quarter of a mile) decided to toss his water bottle. Now, for fans of the sport, a tossed water bottle is pretty good memorabilia. For not fans, a tossed water bottle is littering. The bottle flew out of the rider's hand, bounced on the street, up the curb, and came to rest among the feet of some very offended and flustered old ladies. I went ahead and picked it up so it wouldn't bother them. And, now, I'm the proud owner of a pro cyclist's water bottle. The cool thing is, it's 100% biodegradable. Which, while not usually something I look for in water bottles, is a really great feature for a bottle that is quite likely going to come to its final resting place at the side of the road somewhere.

And, now, for some crappy photos just to prove I was there.
Here they are: the sprint winners flying past:

I clearly don't have a camera designed to take action shots. Notice how unround their wheels look. They were moving so fast my camera couldn't keep up.

And, finally, the Lanterne Rouge (red lantern). At his absolute worst day he's still a million times more an athlete than you.

Us Locals

I popped into the local grocery store to pick up some last minute supplies. Including: protein bars. The cashier chatted with me and said, "Whenever I see these I think of hiking."

I smiled and replied, "Well, I'm going hiking, so that works well."

"Oh?" she asked, "where?"

"Just the park."

She then asked if I was going to hike Half Dome and we chatted about the permit system a bit and how it's new and sometimes quite frustrating. She indicated that she probably wouldn't hike it again because of the permitting system. Then said, "They really should have some sort of separate permit for us locals, you know?" While I couldn't agree more (and, that would be easy enough to do) I pointed out that they do have a day-of permit option, so she could try that.

More importantly, did you see what happened there? The 'us' she threw out was an inclusive 'us', not exclusive. While I think I'll always consider myself a local to the area, I know that I've become the outsider. So, what was it that made her see a fellow citizen? "the park." For as long as I can remember we have always referred to Yosemite simply and casually as "the Park." Sometimes with capital emphasis, sometimes not. When my town finally got a community park it was slightly confusing. Things would be scheduled there and it would be simply referred to as the park. That quickly changed. The community park is now, "the community park" and Yosemite has remained "the Park".

So, if you're ever in the area and you want to be tagged as a local (though, honestly, there's precious little benefit) when talking about Yosemite simply shrug and say casually, "oh, just the park."

Note: if you're in Fresno they'll have no idea what you're talking about. You have to be in gateway communities for people to fully grasp how not big of a deal having the world's most famous US National Park in your back yard really is.

Permitting

In order to backpack in Yosemite's back country one needs to have a permit. There are two ways to obtain these permits:

1. like a good person, apply early; or 
2. like the impromptu bum that I am, show up either the day of, or the day before and hope that they have open spots.

To be honest, showing up the day of is kind of a crap shoot because they could have handed out all the last minute permits the day before. Showing up the day before is kind of a pain in the butt because they won't give you a permit until 11, and (if you're a local) that's half your day lost driving up and back from the Park.

I, however, didn't realize that they had changed the day-before rule to be "after 11", so I had plotted my evil plans to get up early, get to the Park, get my permit, and head back for the race. Yes, if you're keeping track, I did this the day the Tour of California came through town.

I got up early and headed to Yosemite. I pulled into a permitting station at 8:15 am, to discover that they don't open until 8:30. With time to kill, I decided to head into the Valley. There's something about Yosemite Valley in the early hours of the morning—nature is the only thing awake. There is no traffic. No people. Nothing between you and the splendor. Two hours later, there is only traffic, people, and the splendor seems somehow cheapened.

No matter. I drove on towards the Valley. Then, I passed through the infamous Yosemite Tunnel which opens up into the most famous view of all of Yosemite: The Tunnel View (yeah, that's what the call it. Creative, eh?). I don't know why, but whenever I pass I feel compelled to stop and take a photo. In the early morning hours there is no light flooding the Park, and the shadows and fog make it somehow more mystical.  

I arrived at the Valley Wilderness Center at 9:15, walked in, and started chatting with a ranger about my plans. "Oh," she said, "tomorrow?" Then I learned that permits for tomorrow aren't given out until today at 11. I told her I had to be back in town by 1 and half pleaded for her to be lenient. She wasn't. Then, I asked if I could get the same permit a Wawona. Yup. Sure can. Wawona is an hour closer to town (allowing for traffic), so I got back in my car and headed out the way I came.

I got there at 10.

The ranger there, predictably at this point, wasn't going to help a sister out, either. Despite the fact that there was no line and no one clamoring for the permit I was after. I had to kill an hour, no two ways about it.

I wandered about on a little nature hike, but 20 minutes out realized that I had left my car unlocked. My car which was full of over a thousand dollars worth of backpacking equipment. I turned around. Then I had another 20 minutes to kill which I did by wandering around the visitors' center and, then, 5 minutes until the hour, I started begging the ranger to be a pal and start processing my permit early because I had somewhere to be.

As it turns out, begging (if done flirtatiously) will get a girl everywhere. Ranger Hard Ass started my permit 5 minutes before the hour. And, right at 11 he completed it. He printed it out and handed it to me, and I was on my way. Slowly heading back to town to watch the aforementioned bike race.

Mother's Day and Old Friends

I woke up at the crack of dawn. No. Literally. Birds chirping, sun peaking through the leaves, the smell of another camper's fire. Crack of camping dawn.

I had driven 17 hours the previous day and finally passed out in a camp ground a few miles from the church house. My first order of business: Take a camp shower in the campground washrooms. Blissfully, they have running water and locking doors. I bathed up, pulled on a dress, and headed back to my car—in hiking boots. Oddly enough, I didn't figure my stilettos would hold up well walking through a camp ground.

A few hours later (after killing time at a coffee shop slowly snacking on a scone and sipping some nasty excuse for herbal tea) I entered the church building that I still consider my "home ward" (this time wearing my stilettos).

I walked in a bit early and looked around for people I recognized. There were a few. I'd venture to say I recognized far less than a quarter of the people there.

Then, in came a woman who will always be a part of my childhood memories—Diana.

Aside: Diana and my mother were the best of friends throughout my childhood. We children spent a ton of time together because of that relationship, but, it was genuinely a friendship and a sisterhood that was built around themselves. They loved each child, and made sure we felt their love (I know Diana loves me just as I love her), but, far more importantly, they loved and supported each other through all the rough things that life could throw. And, for Diana especially, life threw a lot. For that, I have a unique love for Diana. I see her as the woman who loved and cared for my mother when she needed it. And I see her as my mother sees her—Strong. Brave. Loving. and, most of all, Special. It's hard to describe, but she's a wonderful woman. And I guess that's all I can possibly say about her without this turning into (hopefully very premature) eulogy. 
 
I had found a seat at the back of the chapel, and when I saw Diana I immediately sprang to my feet and rushed to embrace her. We chatted briefly, and then her wonderful husband walked in. We hugged, and the three of us spent a minute catching up. Then, Diana said to me, "you're more than welcome to come sit with us." "I think I will do just that," I said, grabbing my scriptures and heading to the front of the chapel with them.

In the few minutes before the meeting started a few other old friends and youth leaders noticed me and came to give me hugs (and tell me how wonderful I look).

Two hours later, I was sitting in Relief Society (the women's Sunday School class) listening to an old youth leader conduct. After the meeting was finished she stood up and said, "I'm terribly sorry, I forgot to have the visitors introduce themselves." Then, she asked a few other visitors to introduce themselves before she turned to me and Diana (predictably, I was sitting with her) and said, "And, Diana? You have someone with you I don't believe I recognize." "You should!" Diana said. Then I stood and said, "I'm Granola Girl. For those of you who are now wondering why on earth a third of the room know recognizes me, this is the ward I grew up in." It was a warm moment. Lots of people asked about my parents (who had moved out a decade ago), and many asked about me and my siblings. It was a fun, brief moment of catching 30 people up on the goings on of the last 10 years.

Then, church was over, and I was back on my own devices for the new few days before the big race.

The Drive

For some reason the drive between Seattle and Fresno is always an hour too long. I find I get nearly there, and then I have to pull over and nap for an hour. This drive was no different. Nearly there, too tired to keep driving, I pulled over and passed out at a rest stop for an hour or so. Then, I woke up, and kept driving.

I pulled into my home town around 1 am and set about trying to find a cheap hotel for the night. Since I know all of them, it's not exactly challenging to figure out who was going to be the cheapest. After trying the cheapest 3 and being told that the lowest they could go for just the night was $85, I announced, "Ehhh... that's too steep for me. I'll just go camp at the lake." Insult to injury: When I looked shocked when the desk clerk told me it was going to be $100 (before I asked about just that night) he said, "well, you guys all come at the same time..." The implication that I was a tourist just made me nearly 100% likely to not stay there. He had no idea I was a local, and it was a fair assumption, but, no. Just. no.

So, I drove to the lake just outside of town, pulled into one of the camp grounds, rolled out my sleeping bag (I couldn't even be bothered to set up my tent) and passed out. I was up bright and early and out of the camp ground before the site host was up and making the rounds. I didn't intentionally not pay, but I also didn't go out of my way to pay.

That morning was Mother's Day, and I headed to church hoping to run into old friends from my childhood. Granted, it had been 14 years since I've been there, but, surely some of the old people would still be around.

More on that next...

Going Home

The Tour of California is the most important pro cycling race held in the US. It also occasionally goes right through my home town.

This year was one of those occasions. Since it wasn't like I had anything better to do (though, to be honest, I was planning on going before I retried) I packed up my little car and drove to Yosemite. Well, near enough if you're not from there it makes no difference.

My evil plan:

1. Hang out and see some old friends; 
2. Watch stage 4 from the comfort of my home town; 
3. Maybe consider racing down the mountain to Clovis to see the finish line; 
4. Go backpacking in Yosemite—I needed the time to clear my head, recenter, and reconnect; 
5. Pick up my Grandmother's damn China; and 
6. Pick up some of my parents' stuff that they left behind in storage when they moved to the mid-West last October (Mumsy was coming to visit, so I thought it'd be a good time to send some of it home with her). 

You'll be thrilled to know, I accomplished it all. (Uh... spoiler alert?)