To Tami: 4/30/2006
Maybe it is the water, the altitude, the ubiquitous pungent smell of the omnipresent clean dirt, (the phase of the moon?)…whatever… the minute one catches that first glimpse – (you know the one)…that recognizable turnout just past the second tunnel – something always happens to the soul of each first timer that instantly triggers a massive case of Sierra stupidity. We all have seen it, (all too often, I might add). Autos crammed with family units creeping along at 5 MPH, oblivious – lines of traffic futilely bunched up behind; loaded RVs lurching, suddenly stopping directly in the middle of the wooded highway for no apparent reason; sporadic left turns made unannounced from right lanes; cars going the wrong way on clearly marked one-way roads – somehow they are all completely unaware. There is a theme here: contagious, accepted, awe-inspired idiocy – perhaps it is the first discernment of a higher power: recognition of man’s futility and ineptness that finally overtakes us all. What can you say…Yosemite.
Pictures never seem to do it justice, (at least mine never do.)…the sheer granite cliffs…stair-step hanging cascades...gossamer wisps dangling precariously everywhere…originating on high – somewhere distant… hidden… falling and trailing off, fading into nothingness… a thousand fresh waterfalls. There are prisms of color – a veritable kaleidoscope: the golden alpenglow and that magic moment immediately after a summer squall… the omnipresent gray puffy clouds obscuring the richly veined and mottled walls; that deep distinct shade of azure Sierra sky… rays of a masked sun spotlighting a hundred different shades of verdant wonder. The vertical splendor dumbfounds, certainly reducing the human condition into one of insipid frailty, invoking a newfound respect for nature, sensitivity towards humility. I recognize often that infirmity of overpowering awe, one that turns the most discerning city-dweller into a blathering idiot, respectful now but temporarily overcome – well, some overcome … filled with mystic admiration and wonder – others untouched …blind…sated instead with other unnamed character deformities …perhaps lacking the capacity…no soul.
That first seed planted: those lucky enough to revisit the park repeatedly invariably undergo a predetermined transformation…over time – an evolution …cathartic. Those few, strong enough, those willing and able, perhaps with only a little help of a seasoned guide, someone experienced… a mountain guru, the uninitiated gradually renovate themselves from “wannabees” into our fortunate ranks of knowledgeable backpackers…chosen. The makeover predictable - a new spirit emerges, not unlike the proverbial Phoenix, reborn and revitalized with a new perspective, more appreciative of life and righteously somehow aligned with the un-seen forces nature: (sometimes a bit pompous but certainly stronger and more appreciative of the fragility of the wilderness and the true meaning of life.) Ethics and morals change over time too, those previously blind and unknowing now begin to see; they discover subtle nuances before seemingly unaware, now plainly evident, maturing into caretakers of our beloved Sierra…usually with attitude.
As a rule, I still typically prefer to backpack solo, not that I believe that being alone is in any way superior, but I consider myself an educated, discerning, but set-in-my-ways, soon to be 50-year-old, SOB who would much rather listen to nothing, 25 miles in, than subject myself to the constant senseless drivel of babbling inane masses. My past life consisted of a distinct dichotomy of values. For nine months of the year, I taught – (high school math and science) during the day, and then worked a second career at night… that of a distinguished Food and Beverage peon. Both occupations are honest but hardly noteworthy; I only mention them here because both my personal choice of venues invariably provided for a regular hiatus – typically, three months off during the beloved summer months…the Sierra Nevada calls. Most of the year, I pined longingly for the higher mountain climes of my beloved Sierra – my summer home for the past 20 years – usually somewhere in or around Yosemite and always-above 10,000 feet. For nine months a year, I gladly prostrated myself proudly, swallowing pride, subjecting myself to the subjective wants of others: sometimes - answering infantile questions, most usually better left un-asked… (Today’s kids are much too self-absorbed in themselves…they do not listen anyway). Then at night, I worked double-time, spending long hours providing polished and opulent service to the affluent but demanding high snobbery of our society. I enjoy certain aspects of both occupations, and always performed both jobs with a sincere smile, but am constantly counting the days and aching for the freedom that only the Sierra summer invariably provides...a time to refresh the spirit anew.
This tale begins 15 years ago, in Palm Springs, sometime in April, on a weekday. Only recently relocated, freshly removed from the friendly debauchery of my last neighborhood, the New Orleans French Quarter, not teaching in California yet, I now only toiled one job as a bartender in a posh Palm Springs upscale establishment – Melvyn’s. It was at that time the only 5-star establishment in that part of the desert, a favorite dining and watering hole for the local luminaries and other various entertainment nabobs visiting from who-knows-where into the prestigious SoCal Coachella Valley. My current job mainly consisted of keeping finely etched crystal glasses full of over-priced cocktails in an upper class, horny, aging, meat-market environment – (oh, it also had a piano bar) – good bucks… and like most of the major Palm Springs eateries…soon temporarily closed (as usual) for the upcoming summer months ahead. Slow tonight, my bar shift over after the dinner hour…still early, I said adios to my fellow bartender, took my black and whites out the door, and headed down Palm Canyon Drive to seek out another familiar watering hole – somewhere with a younger clientele and cheaper libations.
There she was…the new cocktail girl…long legs, short skirt…pouty lips…and big… eyes (ha! got ya on that one, huh)…my soon to be wife. Tamara, my beloved Tami, her and I together from the start…from the very beginning she said she completely understood about my passion for the mountains. She mentioned she had never been to Yosemite herself, but she took it all in stride when I soon subsequently left her temporarily for the two summer months ahead, starting in late June. Soon after my return, that September, she moved in with me, and never left; we married a few years later. I guess we all have to grow up eventually…I waited as long as I could.
Most women expect gifts…the nature of the beast…however, along with the usual crapola, I began bringing home some “extra” surprises: one day a Gregory Deva backpack, another day a Sierra Design down bag, and one afternoon I took her out unexpectedly and fitted her with “the kind” Vasque boots, her size…she thought I was crazy. (There is always a problem when you own the best equipment yourself… you have to be consistent, but damn… ka – ching - $$$.) Anyway, after a while, the gear closet filled to the rafters - (sound familiar?), she started to look at me a bit strange; did I really expect her to wear this expensive gear…her…a city girl…backpacking? She really appeared flummoxed after I told her where we were going that next summer… (You know where)…Yosemite, first for a short week, then later (if it all worked out), for an extended two-week backpacking adventure...a man has to do what a man has to do.
I think her previous idea of ruffling it was not using valet parking when we were going out to eat. I have to admit that she was willing and strong, (and she had the great body), but you could see it in her eyes that she was a bit unsure over this upcoming wilderness episode, especially when I explained to her in depth about what a bear does in the woods. I honestly thought she was going to leave me right there and then.
Boots well broken in, gear fitted, the appointed day arrived…the car packed and headed back to Yosemite… again – finally (sorry about all the previous ramblings and the length of time it took to get to this mountain part of the story). Yes, we too stopped at the scenic turnout afore mentioned above, and yes, she too came down with the typical case of Yosemite awe - (Sierra stupidity?). A few days spent in the Valley…rafting…the tourist trail up to the Emerald Pool above Vernal…cocktails at the Curry Bar…we were soon enough sufficiently Valley acclimated. I figured that doing YNP in gradual steps might be better than jumping right in and backpacking away from all civilization right from the very start. The short drive up to Tuolumne, obtaining the required wilderness permit, the repacking of the food; she took it all in stride, but who really knows what she was thinking about during all this new fangled foreign activity – she was now, at least for a short spell, temporarily quiet – (ah, for the good old days).
That June night, our first night in the Tuolumne campground – the “A loop” along the river – it snowed…WTF? I remember midnight, her poking me in the ribs; waking me…she wanted to make sure I saw the snow too…asking me if this was normal, and just making sure that I really knew about all this nature, “outdoorsy-type” stuff. The next day we were off to Cathedral Lakes via the fisherman trail up from Tenaya. Our intended route circuitous; we pointed for the Cathedrals first…maybe a quick X-country jaunt over to Matthes Lake, then Sunrise Lakes, and back down to Tenaya… I wanted to start out easy, 3 - 4 nights, just to see how she would do and felt about it all, before we did any extended second trip. Her first 400 feet, wearing a semi-loaded backpack for the first time, she immediately tripped and fell over a log; her leg bleeding slightly, I thought it was all over, but to her credit, she got up instantly and continued on, now leading our way up the granite rock face …hooked. See:
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I am not going to bore you with any day-to-day accountings of this trip…or the next one, a month later (You know I would not marry a woman who would not be able to hang… didn’t you?), but I will regale you with a few memorable highlights of that summer’s adventures. Camping at Townsley Lake, near Vogelsang HSC, one night she asked me when we were going to see our first bear. As if on cue, not less than 10 seconds later, a big brown came from around a nearby rock…her eyes bugging out, but never showing any trace of panic. She was starting to get the idea; we both laugh about it today.
At Bernice Lake, she bonked…hit the wall… just a few hundred feet below the ridgeline of the lake, just after crossing Vogelsang Pass. See:
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I told her to rest, take a nap there, in the middle of a beautiful flower-covered meadow while I took my pack up to our intended camp…I reassured her that I would be back in 20 minutes to carry her pack up for her. Here she discovered that Sierra alpine meadows, while soft, idyllic, and majestic, hold millions of ravenous mosquitoes…a valuable lesson learned here about the importance of DEET. At Bernice, she caught her first rainbow trout – a 2-pounder too – but unfortunately, I lost it trying to get the hook out; (she still brings that up whenever we fish again). That night, sitting on a rock lakeside, consuming our most grand trout feast, a fat marmot joined us for dinner, sitting in the middle of the same rock – only feet away – between us actually, obviously comfortable with us, consuming all the fish that stuck to the bones that we tossed his way. Tami also broke her fishing rod here – (I had bought her one of those cheaper Trailmasters – not the good model I carry), and from then on, for the remainder of the trip, we shared mine. Now, she deals only with the best…It has not changed much to this day.
We spent four nights at Washburn Lake; fires legal, plenty of available firewood, great fishing, few if any visitors…my favorite Sierra Lake – it was glorious. By the end of the fourth day here, she was building fires, hanging food, and to her credit – turning quickly into a truly accomplished woodsperson. We played a fishing game there – a contest of sorts: fly and bubble, each had five casts - one point for a fish, a half-point for a documented but unsuccessful strike before turning the rod over to the next person for their turn – damn if she did not win – honestly. The prize she selected was for me to heat some water and wash her hair for her – fair enough - a pleasure just having her along; I guess there were more things I still had to learn myself about hiking with a woman.
Little Yosemite Valley – the old campground with the blue porta-potties: this was the last night of a most successful adventure. I turned in a bit early, Tami decided instead to stay up late and finish the last few chapters of her paperback novel, unfortunately draining the last bit of juice out of the flashlight batteries – I slept unknowing. Sometime after midnight, (you guys know how this goes), a rustling noise outside of the tent …again, a poke in the ribs…something outside demanded my attention. Having to get up anyway…no real problem, (yea right…if you believe that), I reached for the flashlight – not knowing it was drained…nothing… then cursing the darkness, pulled down the zipper of the tent and stuck my head outside… right into the side of a bear. For those never lucky enough to experience a bear that close…bears reek; they smell foul, are more than a bit greasy, and the hair is not at all soft and cuddly (as in the famous Charmin commercials). Not being able to see that well, I could only barely make out the bear trying to abscond with her backpack, obviously something left in the top pocket grabbed its attention. Lucky, the only real damage was a ripped zipper…and the copious amounts of bear slobber – another lesson learned – the hard way.
Two days later found us again above the Mist Trail, coming down, almost home… battling the hundreds of rude tourists crowding along on the misty-covered stair steps of Yosemite’s most popular trail. Interesting, this the exact same trail she walked on unsure when first in Yosemite only a few months before…now heading back – now nicely seasoned, she was different. Before, she knew nothing about the mountain ways, now only a few wilderness months later, she acted as if she was born of the mountains …energetic, respectful, and even a bit arrogant, somewhat intolerant of those not exhibiting the same correct, newfound Sierra manners and values.
I warmly gazed at her (proud) as Tami now started to plainly exhibit that certain cocky swagger that comes from completing a successful backpacking adventure…the pack lighter, the step bolder, and the smile broader. We all have it; some more than others, but to some extent, there is certainly that self- assured air that typifies anyone confident, alive, and at peace with their role in the outdoors. There is that attitude…a glow – (it plainly shows through the trail dirt) – that separates successful backpackers from all others. I cannot put my finger on it directly…but I always see it, (a lot); it is especially evident at the end of any wilderness adventure.
At the Emerald Pool, we paused a quick minute, and Tami, a bit flustered now …unexplained…stopped and retied her ensolite pad low, horizontal…across the bottom of her Gregory backpack. When I asked her why she now carried it this way (before it was attached higher…vertical…closer in) …she just smiled – the smile of someone with a mission…and sinister master plan. When we hit the paved part of the trail below Vernal, the crowds thick, she asked me (told me actually) if it was OK if she led the rest of the way down. Humbly, I watched her strut her stuff ahead, (quite the vision actually)…calling out “trail right” as she passed others on the right – a confident demeanor now plainly evident…hearing my words echo from her lips. “Trail left”…please…”trail left” she called out, trying to pass another couple holding hands and standing directly in the middle of the trail – oblivious and blocking all…not missing a step, she politely barged right through.
Then she started walking even faster, past some dude I vaguely recognized that had passed us earlier on the trail, a mile or so above. Without a word she passed him… close on the left (him on the right), then quickly spinning left, clipped him with her backpack…putting him forcibly, directly into a granite wall. Now smiling…obviously feeling much better, “That turd grabbed my butt earlier…payback is a bi-tch…you know, I really think I am going to like this backpacking thing.” I know I did not teach her that, I guess there are some things that she did not have to learn…some things just came naturally to Tami.
Another solo backpacking adventure…by markskor