The learning curve of Yosemite
Posted: Sun Feb 26, 2006 8:41 am
The Learning Curve of Yosemite 2/26/2006
The Royal Arches is a granite formation, a multi-pitch rock climb of Yosemite Valley, (located high above the Ahwahnee Hotel); it is a moderate climb at best, (especially if you manage to stay on route). Rated 5.7, it contains 14 -15 pitches of quality climbing fun - little off-width chimneys – mostly on clean exposed granite. Having done this route once before, I called first lead - starting out miserably – drastically hung over from the previous night’s celebration at the Broiler Room of the Yosemite Lodge – the Yankees wound up beating the pants off the Dodgers on the bar TV. Too far left, but following an epic handcrack – damn, I could not seem to remember how the route actually started, luckily there were other climbers there …somehow, watching them quickly pass us by, laughing… we eventually got back on track. I led the first three or four pitches, (sobering up quickly now) and then temporarily spent, noodle-armed, I took up my position in the back of the bus, cleaning up the pro – my sling becoming heavier by the minute. Somewhere, around the seventh or eighth pitch, we did what everyone seems to do there - we got off-route…again,… into the weeds – dropping down and then crossing up and over to the famed pendulum pitch – our days climb now almost half over...we thought. See:
http://www.topozone.com/map.asp?lat=37. ... -119.56528
Relaxing on belay, I sat back watching my friend Bill do this hairy long snake-out – almost free - his feet suddenly blowing out – violently pulling out every piece of protection from a slightly horizontal crack as he fell; he was a human pendulum on a 30-foot arc. (When you think about the physics, it was probably closer to a 60-foot fall – top to bottom.) Bill, I think his name was Bill (could have been Bob – as in plumb bob) – we had just met down at Sunnyside the day before. He was, (self-professed) a much better climber than I was, capable of leading far above my barely-respectable 5.9 – he appeared OK. When I say he was OK, I meant still alive - except for the fractured arm, broken collarbone, various scrapes, contusions, and generally being a babbling, bloody pulp…we took our time lowering him carefully off the rock. Now I, being almost 30-years-old, pondered this entire episode and taking stock; maybe it was time for me to reconsider rock climbing as a serious life avocation. If someone – a much better climber than I would ever be – can instantly turn himself into a bloody yoyo in a careless instant, maybe there were other ways, better ways to enjoy my beloved Sierra.
Hitchhiking back up highway 395, my intentions were to get back to Lake Tahoe, (Round Hill specifically), before dusk…I missed my objective by only a hundred miles or so. Now, it was getting dark, and I was now still at the California/Nevada border; my last ride stranding me at that little dilapidated piece of… casino located at Topaz Lake, backpack and climbing gear lying at my feat, standing, seemingly un-noticed by the string of passing cars, on the side of the road, thumbing. Thankfully, there was a campground behind the casino, two campgrounds really, one for car-campers…full of G-rated, perky, family units, the other, for backpackers only…completely empty. I paid my $5 and walked into the empty backpacker section, setting up my North Face Pebble tent in the far back…the closest site to the shore, once again home – safe and sound for the night.
I may have told you this story before, but for those who might have missed it, I will sorrowfully relate this part all over again. I rudely awoke the next morning to the piercing sounds of a vociferous duck, swimming and quacking away, just off shore - sunrise. Trying to ignore the incessant early-morning interruption was fruitless; the damn duck would not shut up – I was too close to the water’s edge, and he seemed to be intentionally calling out, baiting me. Crawling out of my warm, comfy bag, (nature called anyway), I looked around for a projectile, something, anything to chuck in the general direction of the offending creature. Spying a convenient, soft ball-sized chunk of granite, I let it go in the duck’s direction; my true intention was high and outside, a waste pitch, just to brush it back – merely to get it away from my previously quiet campsite. I admit it, I put something extra on the release, the toss was indeed a hefty throw, one in a million, not unlike a soldier tossing a hand grenade, or one of those innocent little rockets the kids play with, arcing high and far against the red-orange morning sun – all done in slow motion. Mid flight, surprisingly the duck turned and sped up; the rock and the duck now on a predetermined collision course, destined for an instant date with mortality. I can vividly recall the audible crack – a snap, bones breaking, and the resultant mournful peace - still.
Wide awake now, maybe a bit ashamed, (the duck fatally floating away face down), I would no longer be able to sleep after that unintentional debacle, energized though - nothing else to do (I hate gambling); I grabbed my “el cheapo” rod and reel and headed for the flawless lake stretched out enticingly before me. On the far end, against the rocks sheltered, from deep, black, hidden pools brightly colored trout now increasingly dimpled the mirrored glass surface - the morning’s rise. First cast, distant then deep – waiting patiently, slowly jerk-dragging a white and pink, 3/16th oz. Z-Ray, something substantial struck running, my four-pound line singing a chorus from off my black, Wal-mart-bought Daiwa reel. There is something about a large fighting trout – maybe the tail walk – maybe the bent rod – maybe the sound of the drag - whatever, from out of nowhere, little kids appeared, calling, laughing, eager to help but mostly just in the way - amazing. I remember fighting the beast, then slowly easing it into a quiet cove, reds and greens, silvers – the lure swallowed – a four-pound ‘bow panting its last in the shallows before me. I also remember the littlest kid, laughing and jumping, more exited than I, eager to be in any way a part of the moment; not looking where he was going, jumping on my 2-piece rod – another audible snap – payback.
The casino there, involved in many more activities than alcohol and gambling, held (maybe still does) a summer fishing derby, awarding cash prizes for the biggest fish caught weekly from out of “their” Topaz Lake. My trout, even though a stocker (what did you really expect from a lake along highway 395) came in a close second in that week’s fishing competition: 4-pounds, 2 ounces. It paid out $75, coincidently the price for an Eagle Claw Trailmaster, 6 ½-feet, 4-piece, backpacking rod, offered for sale in the window of the shop there: $74.99. (I wish I could make this sort of stuff up people, but maybe it is just pre-fated – out of my hands – destiny by intelligent design); instead of rock climbing, maybe I was now supposed to fish the Sierra Nevada – made sense to me – I believe in things like that. While there, I also bought a good reel – the best they offered – a Penn gold series SS 420, replacing my previously inferior equipment with what I still feel is the best spinning fishin/backpacking ensemble available today.
Soon back in Yosemite Valley, again – the park’s attraction for me always too great – this time backpack loaded sans climbing gear… raining outside, I happened to spend some time inside the Wilderness Center – the same building where previously you got the backcountry wilderness permits. In the book section there, I discovered a small innocuous-looking pamphlet by a Hank Johnston – soft covered (only 16 pages), it briefly but succinctly encapsulates what I eagerly sought after: a detailed treatise on Yosemite Trout Fishing. This smallest of all books – soft cover too – contains analysis of 318 park lakes; the last few pages listing all the 127 lakes in the park containing fish. Furthermore, careful scrutiny reveals Mr. Johnston gives only 10, maybe a few more, a good or better rating as to where the big fish live, and where he feels the best fishing possibilities still exist in the park. Closer analysis in conjunction with detailed Topo maps reveals that most (if not all) of these “favorite” lakes are at least 10 miles off any road – many much farther in; this detailed information now providing a concrete reason for me to see the wildest, most remote areas of the park, first hand. (This is what they mean when they say do your homework.) I now had another valid reason (other than climbing which she hated with a passion) to tell my wife why I was going out backpacking alone; I had to see for myself if Hank Johnston’s analysis was correct. (The things we have to do.)
Bernice Lake: the book lists the starting point as Tuolumne Meadows, 11 miles out, 18 acres, EB (short for Eastern Brook though I discovered it does also have Rainbows), elevation 10,217, and he lists the lake as good – his highest possible rating. Just 1 mile off the main trail, its location conveniently places it just far enough away that it gets little if any fishing pressure. The summer season of Yosemite lasts about 100 days total – often much less – the trail splitting in two below Vogelsang: one side easier down to Emeric Lake and continuing on, the other up and over the pass before coming only close in proximity to Bernice, before also heading down, joining the other again above Merced Lake. Consequentially, Bernice sees, at the most, only about 200 intrepid souls per year, most of them non-fishermen, hardly enough to make a difference on its established trout population. The fishing (let us keep this quiet) there is indeed good, mostly 11 -13 inchers, some larger; Hank Johnston’s analysis once again proved correct – at least there.
This rambling story (I do apologize… well, not really, but…) actually begins on the backside of Bernice Lake, over against the refrigerator-sized talus that covers the entire backside shoreline. See: http://www.topozone.com/map.asp?z=11&n= ... ayer=DRG25
Many years now since my transformation from climber to angler – experienced - I usually carry not only a spinning reel, but also an Orvis fly reel – though I readily admit my preference for spinners in most High Sierra waters. As for flies, I carry a large assortment – lures too, all carefully sorted and stashed away in small Perrine aluminum boxes, a company that once produced a fine assortment of boxes in various sizes but now, unfortunately, out of business. It is still possible though to purchase these fine Perrine boxes on eBay for a reasonable price; you just have to look carefully at the different models offered – (I carry, among others, #66). Anyway, I was fishing Bernice – the back pools deep, mid day – casually placing my flies, lures, etc in their respective boxes on a large flat boulder – close to but unfortunately not in the daypack that I usually carry while fishing.
You guessed it, the large talus boulder moved and my entire assortment of lures and flies slid down beneath the massive rocks, just barely visible in the cracks - far below but impossible to reach… essentially gone. Imagine the dismay, 11 miles in on a 50-mile backpacking fishing trip, no flies, and no lures - solo. In an instant, my heart sunk; no way could I move those gigantic boulders, and even when I cleverly tried to use my rod to reach down and rescue my Perrine box, it proved fruitless…I was seriously flocked. I still had the teardrop shaped bubbles – and the split shot, but without hooks, flies, and lures, I was effectively dead in the water, at least as far as fishing went for the rest of the trip – a sad lesson learned. Sadly, I retreated off the talus, back to my camp on the far side, my tail between my legs – completely and utterly dejected.
Crossing back, I happened to came across another camper’s tent pitched near mine, somehow his joining me up at Bernice unseen, my pre-occupation with my loss perhaps explaining why I did not see him when he first arrived. Elated to find another soul in residence, I immediately questioned him about whether he carried fishing gear; maybe, between us, we could still salvage this trip after all. Alas, only a very small percentage of the backpackers in Yosemite actually carry fishing gear regularly; indeed, he was also an experienced angler – unfortunately this trip – travelling fast and light, he left his fishing gear elsewhere; my spirits sunk again…crap. Tom, (I think his name was Tom but I usually am wrong about these things…I will call him that anyway for the sake of this story) was one of those amazing individuals that was up to – even surpassing – any conceivable challenge presented. Tom was thin, older, short, but with an experienced eye, an air that first listened, considered, and then produced viable and realistic results to any problem. After telling him my sad tale of woe, Tom came up with a solution: search and recycle...
We were not the first to visit this lake, and not in any way the last; even the best-experienced anglers coming before us always lost gear during the process. Tom, mindful of his own Sierra fishing experiences, suggested combing the bush for these precious offerings…those lost snags – tree limbs that reach out that seem to grab line – inadvertent casts on a regular basis…they are always there; you just have to search them out. Walking the shoreline, exploring the obvious fishing sites…yes, Tom was right; there were a plethora of easy finds. With a careful eye, we together discovered there was no shortage of usable Sierra treasures ripe for the taking; bird nests of monofilament, abandoned and hastily stashed away in the bushes held hooks…size 12 and 14…overhanging limbs…more hooks with small lead weight dangling in the sunlight like spider webs. You just had to look closely; we did. An hour later, one brief cursory trip around the lake, searching carefully with detective eyes produced over a dozen usable specimens – I was close to being back in business. Hemostats used as a vise, black thread, feathers from the down, scraps of colored cloth…and a little super glue; that evening, I caught us both dinner.
The next morning…when I came back from the talus – after early fishing the morning rise, Tom was gone, his campsite now vacant – not a trace remained, disappearing as quietly as he came, (mysterious that I never saw him come…or go). Packing up, I also soon continued my journey down the meandering granite path, my newly trained eye now constantly scanning for more of those discarded Sierra riches…the fishing trash left behind by others. For the record, I caught much on the remainder of that trip; I continually to this day scour the brush still, only a little exertion spent rummage around …easily recovering expensive lures left behind by those not willing to put out the required effort. There is a moral here, not just for fishing, but for all life’s general endeavors; it is all part of discovering the many lessons of the wilderness, the learning curve of Yosemite.
Another solo backpacking adventure…by markskor
References cited: Yosemite Trout Fishing, Johnston, H. (1985), Flying Spur Press
The Royal Arches is a granite formation, a multi-pitch rock climb of Yosemite Valley, (located high above the Ahwahnee Hotel); it is a moderate climb at best, (especially if you manage to stay on route). Rated 5.7, it contains 14 -15 pitches of quality climbing fun - little off-width chimneys – mostly on clean exposed granite. Having done this route once before, I called first lead - starting out miserably – drastically hung over from the previous night’s celebration at the Broiler Room of the Yosemite Lodge – the Yankees wound up beating the pants off the Dodgers on the bar TV. Too far left, but following an epic handcrack – damn, I could not seem to remember how the route actually started, luckily there were other climbers there …somehow, watching them quickly pass us by, laughing… we eventually got back on track. I led the first three or four pitches, (sobering up quickly now) and then temporarily spent, noodle-armed, I took up my position in the back of the bus, cleaning up the pro – my sling becoming heavier by the minute. Somewhere, around the seventh or eighth pitch, we did what everyone seems to do there - we got off-route…again,… into the weeds – dropping down and then crossing up and over to the famed pendulum pitch – our days climb now almost half over...we thought. See:
http://www.topozone.com/map.asp?lat=37. ... -119.56528
Relaxing on belay, I sat back watching my friend Bill do this hairy long snake-out – almost free - his feet suddenly blowing out – violently pulling out every piece of protection from a slightly horizontal crack as he fell; he was a human pendulum on a 30-foot arc. (When you think about the physics, it was probably closer to a 60-foot fall – top to bottom.) Bill, I think his name was Bill (could have been Bob – as in plumb bob) – we had just met down at Sunnyside the day before. He was, (self-professed) a much better climber than I was, capable of leading far above my barely-respectable 5.9 – he appeared OK. When I say he was OK, I meant still alive - except for the fractured arm, broken collarbone, various scrapes, contusions, and generally being a babbling, bloody pulp…we took our time lowering him carefully off the rock. Now I, being almost 30-years-old, pondered this entire episode and taking stock; maybe it was time for me to reconsider rock climbing as a serious life avocation. If someone – a much better climber than I would ever be – can instantly turn himself into a bloody yoyo in a careless instant, maybe there were other ways, better ways to enjoy my beloved Sierra.
Hitchhiking back up highway 395, my intentions were to get back to Lake Tahoe, (Round Hill specifically), before dusk…I missed my objective by only a hundred miles or so. Now, it was getting dark, and I was now still at the California/Nevada border; my last ride stranding me at that little dilapidated piece of… casino located at Topaz Lake, backpack and climbing gear lying at my feat, standing, seemingly un-noticed by the string of passing cars, on the side of the road, thumbing. Thankfully, there was a campground behind the casino, two campgrounds really, one for car-campers…full of G-rated, perky, family units, the other, for backpackers only…completely empty. I paid my $5 and walked into the empty backpacker section, setting up my North Face Pebble tent in the far back…the closest site to the shore, once again home – safe and sound for the night.
I may have told you this story before, but for those who might have missed it, I will sorrowfully relate this part all over again. I rudely awoke the next morning to the piercing sounds of a vociferous duck, swimming and quacking away, just off shore - sunrise. Trying to ignore the incessant early-morning interruption was fruitless; the damn duck would not shut up – I was too close to the water’s edge, and he seemed to be intentionally calling out, baiting me. Crawling out of my warm, comfy bag, (nature called anyway), I looked around for a projectile, something, anything to chuck in the general direction of the offending creature. Spying a convenient, soft ball-sized chunk of granite, I let it go in the duck’s direction; my true intention was high and outside, a waste pitch, just to brush it back – merely to get it away from my previously quiet campsite. I admit it, I put something extra on the release, the toss was indeed a hefty throw, one in a million, not unlike a soldier tossing a hand grenade, or one of those innocent little rockets the kids play with, arcing high and far against the red-orange morning sun – all done in slow motion. Mid flight, surprisingly the duck turned and sped up; the rock and the duck now on a predetermined collision course, destined for an instant date with mortality. I can vividly recall the audible crack – a snap, bones breaking, and the resultant mournful peace - still.
Wide awake now, maybe a bit ashamed, (the duck fatally floating away face down), I would no longer be able to sleep after that unintentional debacle, energized though - nothing else to do (I hate gambling); I grabbed my “el cheapo” rod and reel and headed for the flawless lake stretched out enticingly before me. On the far end, against the rocks sheltered, from deep, black, hidden pools brightly colored trout now increasingly dimpled the mirrored glass surface - the morning’s rise. First cast, distant then deep – waiting patiently, slowly jerk-dragging a white and pink, 3/16th oz. Z-Ray, something substantial struck running, my four-pound line singing a chorus from off my black, Wal-mart-bought Daiwa reel. There is something about a large fighting trout – maybe the tail walk – maybe the bent rod – maybe the sound of the drag - whatever, from out of nowhere, little kids appeared, calling, laughing, eager to help but mostly just in the way - amazing. I remember fighting the beast, then slowly easing it into a quiet cove, reds and greens, silvers – the lure swallowed – a four-pound ‘bow panting its last in the shallows before me. I also remember the littlest kid, laughing and jumping, more exited than I, eager to be in any way a part of the moment; not looking where he was going, jumping on my 2-piece rod – another audible snap – payback.
The casino there, involved in many more activities than alcohol and gambling, held (maybe still does) a summer fishing derby, awarding cash prizes for the biggest fish caught weekly from out of “their” Topaz Lake. My trout, even though a stocker (what did you really expect from a lake along highway 395) came in a close second in that week’s fishing competition: 4-pounds, 2 ounces. It paid out $75, coincidently the price for an Eagle Claw Trailmaster, 6 ½-feet, 4-piece, backpacking rod, offered for sale in the window of the shop there: $74.99. (I wish I could make this sort of stuff up people, but maybe it is just pre-fated – out of my hands – destiny by intelligent design); instead of rock climbing, maybe I was now supposed to fish the Sierra Nevada – made sense to me – I believe in things like that. While there, I also bought a good reel – the best they offered – a Penn gold series SS 420, replacing my previously inferior equipment with what I still feel is the best spinning fishin/backpacking ensemble available today.
Soon back in Yosemite Valley, again – the park’s attraction for me always too great – this time backpack loaded sans climbing gear… raining outside, I happened to spend some time inside the Wilderness Center – the same building where previously you got the backcountry wilderness permits. In the book section there, I discovered a small innocuous-looking pamphlet by a Hank Johnston – soft covered (only 16 pages), it briefly but succinctly encapsulates what I eagerly sought after: a detailed treatise on Yosemite Trout Fishing. This smallest of all books – soft cover too – contains analysis of 318 park lakes; the last few pages listing all the 127 lakes in the park containing fish. Furthermore, careful scrutiny reveals Mr. Johnston gives only 10, maybe a few more, a good or better rating as to where the big fish live, and where he feels the best fishing possibilities still exist in the park. Closer analysis in conjunction with detailed Topo maps reveals that most (if not all) of these “favorite” lakes are at least 10 miles off any road – many much farther in; this detailed information now providing a concrete reason for me to see the wildest, most remote areas of the park, first hand. (This is what they mean when they say do your homework.) I now had another valid reason (other than climbing which she hated with a passion) to tell my wife why I was going out backpacking alone; I had to see for myself if Hank Johnston’s analysis was correct. (The things we have to do.)
Bernice Lake: the book lists the starting point as Tuolumne Meadows, 11 miles out, 18 acres, EB (short for Eastern Brook though I discovered it does also have Rainbows), elevation 10,217, and he lists the lake as good – his highest possible rating. Just 1 mile off the main trail, its location conveniently places it just far enough away that it gets little if any fishing pressure. The summer season of Yosemite lasts about 100 days total – often much less – the trail splitting in two below Vogelsang: one side easier down to Emeric Lake and continuing on, the other up and over the pass before coming only close in proximity to Bernice, before also heading down, joining the other again above Merced Lake. Consequentially, Bernice sees, at the most, only about 200 intrepid souls per year, most of them non-fishermen, hardly enough to make a difference on its established trout population. The fishing (let us keep this quiet) there is indeed good, mostly 11 -13 inchers, some larger; Hank Johnston’s analysis once again proved correct – at least there.
This rambling story (I do apologize… well, not really, but…) actually begins on the backside of Bernice Lake, over against the refrigerator-sized talus that covers the entire backside shoreline. See: http://www.topozone.com/map.asp?z=11&n= ... ayer=DRG25
Many years now since my transformation from climber to angler – experienced - I usually carry not only a spinning reel, but also an Orvis fly reel – though I readily admit my preference for spinners in most High Sierra waters. As for flies, I carry a large assortment – lures too, all carefully sorted and stashed away in small Perrine aluminum boxes, a company that once produced a fine assortment of boxes in various sizes but now, unfortunately, out of business. It is still possible though to purchase these fine Perrine boxes on eBay for a reasonable price; you just have to look carefully at the different models offered – (I carry, among others, #66). Anyway, I was fishing Bernice – the back pools deep, mid day – casually placing my flies, lures, etc in their respective boxes on a large flat boulder – close to but unfortunately not in the daypack that I usually carry while fishing.
You guessed it, the large talus boulder moved and my entire assortment of lures and flies slid down beneath the massive rocks, just barely visible in the cracks - far below but impossible to reach… essentially gone. Imagine the dismay, 11 miles in on a 50-mile backpacking fishing trip, no flies, and no lures - solo. In an instant, my heart sunk; no way could I move those gigantic boulders, and even when I cleverly tried to use my rod to reach down and rescue my Perrine box, it proved fruitless…I was seriously flocked. I still had the teardrop shaped bubbles – and the split shot, but without hooks, flies, and lures, I was effectively dead in the water, at least as far as fishing went for the rest of the trip – a sad lesson learned. Sadly, I retreated off the talus, back to my camp on the far side, my tail between my legs – completely and utterly dejected.
Crossing back, I happened to came across another camper’s tent pitched near mine, somehow his joining me up at Bernice unseen, my pre-occupation with my loss perhaps explaining why I did not see him when he first arrived. Elated to find another soul in residence, I immediately questioned him about whether he carried fishing gear; maybe, between us, we could still salvage this trip after all. Alas, only a very small percentage of the backpackers in Yosemite actually carry fishing gear regularly; indeed, he was also an experienced angler – unfortunately this trip – travelling fast and light, he left his fishing gear elsewhere; my spirits sunk again…crap. Tom, (I think his name was Tom but I usually am wrong about these things…I will call him that anyway for the sake of this story) was one of those amazing individuals that was up to – even surpassing – any conceivable challenge presented. Tom was thin, older, short, but with an experienced eye, an air that first listened, considered, and then produced viable and realistic results to any problem. After telling him my sad tale of woe, Tom came up with a solution: search and recycle...
We were not the first to visit this lake, and not in any way the last; even the best-experienced anglers coming before us always lost gear during the process. Tom, mindful of his own Sierra fishing experiences, suggested combing the bush for these precious offerings…those lost snags – tree limbs that reach out that seem to grab line – inadvertent casts on a regular basis…they are always there; you just have to search them out. Walking the shoreline, exploring the obvious fishing sites…yes, Tom was right; there were a plethora of easy finds. With a careful eye, we together discovered there was no shortage of usable Sierra treasures ripe for the taking; bird nests of monofilament, abandoned and hastily stashed away in the bushes held hooks…size 12 and 14…overhanging limbs…more hooks with small lead weight dangling in the sunlight like spider webs. You just had to look closely; we did. An hour later, one brief cursory trip around the lake, searching carefully with detective eyes produced over a dozen usable specimens – I was close to being back in business. Hemostats used as a vise, black thread, feathers from the down, scraps of colored cloth…and a little super glue; that evening, I caught us both dinner.
The next morning…when I came back from the talus – after early fishing the morning rise, Tom was gone, his campsite now vacant – not a trace remained, disappearing as quietly as he came, (mysterious that I never saw him come…or go). Packing up, I also soon continued my journey down the meandering granite path, my newly trained eye now constantly scanning for more of those discarded Sierra riches…the fishing trash left behind by others. For the record, I caught much on the remainder of that trip; I continually to this day scour the brush still, only a little exertion spent rummage around …easily recovering expensive lures left behind by those not willing to put out the required effort. There is a moral here, not just for fishing, but for all life’s general endeavors; it is all part of discovering the many lessons of the wilderness, the learning curve of Yosemite.
Another solo backpacking adventure…by markskor
References cited: Yosemite Trout Fishing, Johnston, H. (1985), Flying Spur Press