The Concert at the Yosemite Store: 1/29/2006
Nowhere mentioned anywhere has there been any discussion (or even vague reference for that matter) to any of the extra gear that some of us haul, easily accessible but secretly hidden away, (accepted as added weight, and considered more than just basic creature comforts); I am talking about major gear pertinent to the soul of the individual carrying the backpack.
No my friends, we are not talking fishing gear here; though, at this point in my long-established backpacking life, I consider a rod and reel to be part of the 14 (no, make that 16 now) bare-naked essentials – gear necessary to have … if I do not have them along…why go – might as well stay home.
Some appreciate the art of photography. With the advent recently of the latest micro digital, Sony/Canon/Nikon, with the uber-megapixel array, extra Lithium this, 64 gig memory card that…it is now possible for someone like myself to carry a decent camera ($$$), take and hold over 200 high-resolution but mostly mediocre shots – a good week’s backpacking adventure captured – all for well under 1 pound. All I can say though is, thank God though for the real pros, (many have their outstanding work showcased here in our forum) - digital or film - long lenses, filters, timers, tri-pods, inspiration, understanding, a discerning eye, and more than anything else, patience. You have to admire anybody, already obsessed with backpacking, the ability to find that truly right spot, then after waiting what could be an eternity for the sweet light, bracketing heavily, varying focal lengths, fidgeting with f-stops, filters… timed at… and after all that… maybe, just maybe, getting lucky – that one extraordinary shot – kudos to you! I cannot.
Never having ascribed to this avocation, I can only tip my hat to the various acknowledged masters, and wonder what solo backpacking experiences must ultimately result from lugging all that extra mass of required gear along (alas, that has to be somebody else’s story).
Before proceeding, but as long as we are talking cameras here, I feel a bit of a rant coming on. I myself have never carried a camera; I have yet to find any camera yet that can accurately record those bitter early mornings, the shivering, then the sweat, the agony, the throbbing blisters, or the energy needed that accompanies racing an afternoon thunderstorm over the top of Kearsarge Pass, from either direction. One-hour, Wal-mart generated, two-dimensional, 5 by 7 glossies never tell the whole story; somehow, the cold biting wind, the bug swatting, the aroma of “trail biscuits”, the dust, the scratching, the looking up and tripping, stubbing the toes (I hate that.).…these types of “highlights” never show up in any shot I have ever seen, or taken. Whenever presented with a familiar Sierra photograph, the mind’s eye always searches – remembering the feeling of just getting there – the empathy… the recollection makes the picture seem more alive. I often wonder what someone who has never been up there must see…just a picture.
No, I am more pragmatic than to carry a camera; I am not that good with one, and I know better. If I am going to carry weight at all, the extra 2 or 3 pounds should be something that helps provides easy access to warm friendly campfires, offered samplings of any libations available, and maybe even perhaps a free meal. I am talking here about carrying music…no, not that mini-iPod crapola – stone-deaf hikers with earbuds, tuned out – oblivious… stuck in their own private little worlds - wrong. I am talking about carrying a real musical instrument.
Back then, everybody wanted to play a guitar, even me. Fortunately, an old high school girlfriend, wisely deciding that since she had recently developed, (nicely I might add), she was now much too cool to attempt to play music (badly) anymore; hence, she gave up and bestowed on me her old Conn, a silver-plated, dinged up, leaky-padded, tin-sounding, introductory band flute. (She informed her mom that she lost it…or maybe she used the old: somebody stole it.) A few hundred lessons, some hard living in New Orleans, and 15 years later, the old Conn somehow evolved into a solid silver Gemeinhardt M2, closed hole…sweet. (It plays both rock and roll as well as some jazz licks quite nicely – thanks, and is especially adaptable to most if not all of other Sierra musicians.)
The backpacker’s campground of Yosemite, not to be confused with the other walk-in campground, Sunnyside - Camp 4, sits back behind the stables, down a pine needle-covered path, and across a stone bridge, tucked away under a tree-covered canopy of tall swaying pines and cedar. See:
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In the same campground, in the very back, hidden behind a white stone building, there the Yosemite brain trust, stuck for another separate campground, sequesters much of its foreign peon workforce. These temporary trail crews, actively recruited globally in some way unknown to me, each weekend night the tired workers come down from high trails unknown, re-open a giant steel shipping container there, (much akin to the ones found aboard cargo ships), and take out their individual personal gear, all held inside all week for safe keeping. These “foreign” crews, paid little to nothing, get free camping privileges, good food, and little else in the way of reimbursement for their long day’s efforts; they do get to see Yosemite, and they get to say that they worked on its trails. In my little if any language comprehension here, the general attitude seemed that they took pride in their work. (Fair trade I guess). Many of these guests spoke little if any English, and are only in the park for two or three weeks, tops.
Just down from the high country, off the shuttle at the stables, past the kiosk on the left, following the road through the campground, I strode across the familiar bridge - solo, into the familiar safe haven of the backpacker’s campground. Hans, tall, angular, and lean, Norwegian I think, wearing a ragtop American flag thing on his head, spoke only in his native tongue (whatever the hell that was), but he only sang in English. Continually strumming on an old beat-up Martin archtop, he put out spirited renditions of songs, his favorite songs like “Red Neck Mother”, some early Jackson Browne, and he even threw in some passable Lynyrd Skynyrd too. Hans had an eclectic mix in music taste. He also had a friend, (never caught his name, or if I did, it is now long gone), on 12-string guitar who accompanied him, together they competently hammered out recognizable popular top 40 tunes, always in broken English. They played everything and anything; they had chops – a vast repertoire as it were, occasionally some even the correct words.
Never missing this kind of rare opportunity, down went my backpack and out came the flute. After the quick smile of recognition, (a mutually accepted but unspoken nod - “Put it in C, G, D, or E.” – a wink, a quick tune up - and off we went. The first song started simple but soon evolved into a lengthy and heavily bastardized, funky blues version of a song that…well, all I can remember is that it originally started out as Rocky Raccoon – really not too bad considering. Before long, to nobody’s surprise… (We sounded pretty sweet.)…we drew a crowd; out came ice-cold beer, followed by fried chicken, and eventually all the rest…all among the typical energetic and well-tuned backpacking community…our peers.
Shortly, joining in the party from somewhere out of the increasing darkness, first a mandolin player showed, and then a fiddle player, real good players too – now we were five. It was a country-rock meets raunchy blues….international…slow and easy…piercing type of music that wandered about the backpacker’s campground this evening, bouncing off the granite, and coming to rest eventually on the pine needle carpet. Around a central campfire, shimmering orange light danced both against silver and mahogany, we played on. Hans, (remember…no English), did all the “vocals”…fun hours: every time we attempted to quit … exotic spirits somehow appeared… and more. Finally, being late, Hans’ repertoire exhausted – he crashed and burned. The fire dying, the fiddler, the mandolin, and I capped off the evening with a slow mellow wandering instrumental conversation: Moon Dance – we really worked it. It ended up as low sweet blues …a very nice way to end the evening. The tents all applauded from the shadows.
The next morning, smiles all around, mild hangovers and sweet memories – a special night it was – the enterprising capitalist inside, (or maybe it was our sense of boastful alcoholic pride)…whatever…somebody decided that today, a real concert was in order. This time though, instead of the confines of the backpacker’s campground, we would play in front of the general Yosemite masses – (we could even conceivably make some beer money too in the process). Hans’ friend, temporarily but unexplainably unaccounted for, the four of us re-assembled early afternoon in front of the Yosemite Store – our agreed-upon stage: those big wooden rounds found sitting on that dark brown wooden deck…in front of the trees on the walkway leading from the Shuttle stop to the main Yosemite store.
Songs only practiced together once the night before, somehow miraculously became much tighter sans alcohol; appreciative crowds of basic “tourons” circled, spirited music flowed…many smiles all around… and an open guitar case attracted a noticeable pile of spare change. The Park Rangers, one on horseback especially, stood watch vigilantly over the entire spontaneous spectacle – smiling, laughing, and singing along; another ranger even asked to sit in for a few, doing himself justice on the 12-string. (That boy really did know how to pick!) After quite the memorable Yosemite Valley afternoon, the event over… only the three of us remained - (the Mandolin player split early); the same deck found us sitting back, semi-congratulating ourselves, drinking a cold one, and counting the spoils. All told, I guess you could say that our impromptu concert was an unqualified success; we amazingly tallied a little over $81.00 for three hours of fun.
Then the ranger stepped in, the same one who had joined in the music festivities earlier. Very apologetic in both his comments and demeanor, he said that he was truly sorry for what he had to do because that afternoon he witnessed something indeed magic and out of the ordinary for the park…(I think he used the word memorable.), but unfortunately, we were law breakers. It turns out that an open guitar case constitutes panhandling and panhandling is illegal in Yosemite; our concert replete with a collection plate somehow violated some archaic, non-posted, anti-music, YNP statute. It just so happens though, justice in Yosemite Valley, although sometimes nebulous at best, also provided a quick answer – he (Ranger hat and all) held court immediately on the same cut wooden round that served as our main stage earlier. The fine for each violation turned out to be…(coincidence…I think not) … $25.00 per – there was only three of us left there to charge…the total fine was $75.00…and it was over. WTF? .Nobody said a word…we just sat there nodding and smiling.
The remaining $6.00 went for beer, almost enough for a six-pack. When I think back on that day, some lesser individual might consider the whole afternoon’s ordeal a complete waste of time and energy – not I. Even though we played our hearts out, did surprisingly well too; unfortunately, Yosemite decided to confiscate our pay, even before we had a chance to divvy it up. One thing about it though, I was there and it was quite the show - epic, and they even let us finish it. I just chalk it up to another day in the park, a glorious day it was too, the day of the concert at the Yosemite store.
Another solo backpacking adventure…by markskor