The Kid from Tuolumne Store: 1/17/2006
Eventually, anyone even semi-versed of the high backcountry regions of Yosemite invariably stumbles onto that drab, off-white, often-patched, canvas-sided, wood-beamed, side of the road oasis of an establishment known as the general store of Tuolumne Meadows. Open only 3 or 4, occasionally maybe 5 months a year max, annually rebuilt from the ground up – often functioning just days (moments) after the road’s re-opening. Fully stocked, the store’s convenience supplies basic sustenance to a diverse and varied clientele: climbers, backpackers, car-campers, rangers, fishermen, bikers, any and all manner of passers through, on Highway 120. Just west of the Tuolumne River Bridge, (maybe 10 miles inside Yosemite’s Tioga Gate); it fits in nicely between an ancient stone building (campground reservations) and a Chevron gas station. (To be accurate, there is a line of pay phones, a restroom, employee tent housing, and a large ice machine there too, sharing the same white-striped, crowded, asphalt parking lot).
The building itself is unique, heavy stiff fabric draped over a Lincoln log frame – aging, dated, archaic, and barely adequate in size for the needs. Continually evolving many times over, shelves always different each re-opening – this ramshackle dwelling holds not only a store, but (when and if it actually ever legitimately opens – only on late afternoon weekdays I think) an official U.S. Post Office. Moreover, under the same flap-in-the-wind, drip-on-you-when-it-rains roof but having its own separate outside door is a small kitchen, providing a much-needed and popular “breakfast/lunch/dinner, pancake and burger counter” menu – the Grill. Anticipated from the trail, amazingly cherished many days away, this monopoly of a food concession offers all sorts of semi-hot and almost palatable fare for only a-little-bit-above-exorbitant prices.
Located in the heart of the meadow, the Tuolumne Store anchors a social hub; the entire complex including (among others) a renowned climbing shop, the HSC, the wilderness permit office, stables, as well as the public campground itself. The store, open daily, sells mostly foodstuffs: sweets, candy, newspapers, (only one day old), fruit, alcohol, beer, some respectable wines, and even some stronger spirits too, it is not at all uncommon to find mosquito-bitten, trail-dust-covered, well-traveled, world-class athletes temporarily stepping right off the JMT, and through the swinging wooden doors. Outside, their backpacks left open, bear cans empty – expensive well-used gear thrown down haphazardly, some leaning here-and-there against trees, stumps, and outside walls, broad smiles richly deserved all around. Daily all summer long, a brotherhood of mountaineers convenes armed with stories to share and thirsts to quench. Climbers – longhaired – long muscles, Metolius stickers, their cars beaters, back hatches open – gearboxes stuffed, heavy “borrowed” milk cartons swollen with alien paraphernalia and empty wine bottles. These and more appear, eagerly co-consuming death burgers and cold french-fries while strutting about the parking lot right along side Winnebagos filled with tourons and other various basic family units - the Tuolumne Store.
Relaxing against one of many boulders, conveniently placed between the store and the road, one is easily tempted to sit back temporarily and enjoy life, long, warm, mellow afternoons, privileged – sun basking easily towards a Sierra sunset, drinking frosty cold beers, sharing outlandish tales of adventures with a multitude of similar crazed outdoor aficionados. This all transpires under the scenic splendor of a wildflower-covered blanket, flanked by distant peaks, Unicorn and Lembert. Yup, Tuolumne has an attitude, a distinct edge: a completely different flavor from the somewhat vanilla, homespun one existing down below on the Valley floor. People in the Meadow are more athletic – their blood flows differently, vibrant, playing the game of life most grand sans generators or air conditioners; these cohorts proudly play life’s games hard.
It was just such a Sierra afternoon, early August, while watching the cars coming and going, leaning on my backpack just outside of the store, when I met him. There was a bunch of us, a haphazard gathering at best, maybe a little gnarly looking but all trail-tested, long miles producing audible creaks in bones but ready to go out again - backpackers. I remember Bob appeared as a young college kid, a big kid, (slightly bigger than my 6-foot frame), and that he mentioned that he was toiling away, (unhappily, I might add) in yonder Tuolumne store. He revealed that Curry recruited him fresh out of some small unheard of town in Ohio, finishing up college, out here for the summer. Curry Company – the company then designated to run all the YNP concessions – advertises out of state, and wisely drafts college kids from far away for their annual summer workforce, paying slave labor wages to naïve teenagers eager to experience for themselves the imagined Yosemite lifestyle. Under the guise of a great summer job, gullible teens – now too broke and too far away to even attempt go home without saving up their future meager wages – (read hard work here), come to Yosemite, eager to live out a wilderness, Davy Crocket type, Disney-fed dream. Funny though, with their long work hours, hard schedules, few days off, deductions for meals and food, and a low rate of pay, few of these college kids ever get any chance to go out into any wilderness at all, much less even enjoy their jobs for the long summer. Many invariably (and quickly) turn to getting drunk, and passing their free time listening to the many stories bantered about in front of the store – eavesdropping, living off the adventures of others.
Bob worked in the store, a cashier I think, sharing a shoddy, mildewed, canvas tent – his home - just around back, sometimes stocking dry goods and sometimes working the thankless, never-ending, cash register line. More than anything though, Bob wanted to go backpacking; he possessed the gear – his dad bought it all for him – he told me - all brand spanking new, good stuff too, barely used. He read all the backpacking books – cover to cover, he knew what he thought he should carry, he had a backpack, a sleeping bag, tent, a stove, even fishing gear, but he had never actually been out camping overnight – for whatever reason, he was stuck.
Bob took up a familiar position behind the register, pricing my burrito, beer, newspaper, and fruit;” Where you heading out to next?” he asked. I had only just recently come in from Twin Lakes, near Bridgeport, a good 55 miles distant, arriving to this so-called hub of civilization only that morning. However, to be truthful, two days here at Tuolumne - among all this traffic, although beautiful, the congestion… the constant hubbub made me a bit uneasy; Out for another month, I was wilderness spoiled, more than eager to get out again - soon. “Do not know, Bob,” I said, looking at his nametag, “Were you thinking about heading out somewhere yourself?”
Bob stopped mid ring. I remember him blurting out something to the effect: “Would you mind me taggin’ along for a week or so…you look like you know what you are doing…heard you laughing outside. I never really been out much…not gay or anything…just want to do some real hiking…maybe some fishing…Can I come…I hate this place.”… “Sure, why not,” I heard myself saying. And with that, in that very instant, Bob threw off his apron, eschewing that most-prized possession, his YNP Curry uniform, and walked off the job. “Thank God, screw this!”
Back in his tent, we shared a stolen bottle of wine, a final perk – (it was a good red too – a BV meritage) – I recall us starting to make some vague plans for a possible adventure; there were many possibilities. I mentioned that I always wanted to visit the Mattie Lake area, a bit off any listed trail, high above Glen Aulin. The plans for this hike would first include a visit to Virginia Lake – off Cold Canyon – after spending the first night out near the High Sierra Camp. See:
http://www.topozone.com/map.asp?z=11&n= ... ayer=DRG25
After the wine and just before heading up the hill to the backpacker’s campground, I remember saying to him, “If you are serious, meet me out at the store, tomorrow morning at 7:00 AM.”
Well, the next morning soon found us out in a grass meadow eating free but tepid pancakes, warming ourselves in the sun, and pouring Mac & cheese packages into Ziplocks, dividing two piles. There was candy, canned meats, Crystal lite, Lipton dishes, pita bread, breakfast bars, peanut butter, top ramin, etc…(whatever they sold at the store) – enough food for a good week’s trip. Within the hour, self-contained again, we were on the trail meandering past Soda Springs, following down along the Tuolumne River, north by northwest. That night we camped just over the ridge from the waterfall at Glen Aulin, down among the trees down along the beach, the next day backtracking just a bit, making our way up Cold Canyon, then x-country to Virginia Lake and Mattie.
I wish there was something distinctive about that trip (or about him for that matter) that stood out. I remember him first chattering a lot in the beginning, asking all sorts of questions about hanging food, making fires, fishing, and cooking – all sorts of stuff we just take for granted after many years in the backcountry. I also remember there being no rain on the trip, few mosquitoes, and having fun, the first lake fishless, heavy with clouds of blue damselflies - finally the good extended fishing at Mattie, the deep pools on the far side – something large there breaking my 4-pound line. I remember many Brookies and a few big Browns – (they hover in the dark shadows) – orange fins and green bodies. Observation: Sierra lakes that have active working seagull populations (lake butlers) also generally have good fishing; those with heavy concentrations of those shiny-blue, four-winged, big-eyed, dive-bombers usually produce nothing.) I vividly recall marking fishing time by the color of the alpenglow – the shadows on the granite walls at dusk, and I remember pleasantly our discovering a fisherman’s trail on our way back out, destined to make any future return to Mattie so much easier.
There was however, one thing that did make this whole trip exemplary, and it only occurred many years later. (Ask my wife, it blew her away!) Ten years later, maybe even longer, my wife, a young son, and I were sitting having breakfast in the Camp Curry Cafeteria - the $9.95 all you can eat buffet. This guy, a total stranger - I had no recognition of him at all - comes over to our table and asks, “Are you Mark?” He said that his name was Bob, and that he and I had gone hiking together, once, one August week, many years ago. He said meeting me then had been a turning point in his life, and that my helping him, my showing him the nuances of backpacking, had turned around a dreadful summer. He went on to say he was now a educator, degreed, teaching high school classes somewhere near San Francisco, and that each year he took some students – handpicked from the inner city – into the Yosemite wilderness to show them how to backpack. He smiled, said someone had done something like that for him long ago, and he was just continuing a tradition. All I can remember is that he was the kid from the Tuolumne Store.
Another solo backpacking adventure…by markskor