The trip was brief by design: Mr torpified, whose devotion to indoor plumbing places a strict limit of one night on backpacking trips, had intended to come along. Only he developed a galloping case of poison oak and decided (reasonably, I think) that ready access to hot showers and limitless Technu were conditions of sanity. So the morning of our slated departure, he abandoned the expedition. He insisted that I go anyway; I went, but felt too guilty about his lonesome itchiness to linger.
A few months ago I took a flyer on Yosemite permits, and targeted Hetch Hetchy in early June, on the supposition that if there were anywhere in the park where backpacking was possible then, it'd be there. And that's how I wound up with a Yosemite Wilderness permit during the week when the only visitors allowed into the park were permit holders.
After scrambling to repack for a one person expedition, I left the Bay Area a little before 8 on Monday. Between there and the TH I interacted only with a gas pump in Manteca and the NPS folks staffing the Hetch Hetchy entrance kiosk. They told me that the other two parties permitted for the day had cancelled. I had Hetch Hetchy to myself! This made the drive to the reservoir considerably less stressful than it might have been. I arrived a bit after noon.
I've never been to Hetch Hetchy, but I drink Hetch Hetchy water, and regularly ride my bike by the Pulgas Water Temple, one of the termini of the gravity-powered water distribution system that originates at Hetch Hetchy. (Also the emblem on SF utilities trucks.) Crossing the dam that makes this possible --- by burying a piece of heaven on earth --- is a pretty weird way to start a walk. Especially with Wapama Falls in the distance testifying to what water gets up to when left to its own devices.
After a junction where the road goes the other way, the trail gets trailier, and keeps climbing, through an open forest scarred by, but recovering from, the 2013 Rim Fire. For variety, the surrounds sometimes get a little swampy. (Not so swampy that my feet got wet.) Wildflowers were robust, but probably past peak. Indeed, everything seemed considerably less wet than it probably was a few weeks ago. Frequently, sections of the trail looked like they'd been raked. To account for this, I confabulated an learned explanation involving vigorous run off and the pebbles it carried along.
For me, the highlight of the remaining woodsy stretch were the profusions of snow plants I encountered. One of them even had a hummingbird assaulting it. Like so many of his ilk, he was too headstrong to pose for pictures.
Poking around, I was much more taken with Falls Creek than with the lake itself. So I set up camp high enough above the creek to hope that prevailing breezes would keep the bugs at bay.
In one of the fragments attributed to the preSocratic philosopher Heraclitus (the same guy who said that you never step in the same river twice), he ventures that "the way up and the way down are the same." He is full of it. The walk down, through the less-than-magical semi-burnt woodland and the road that grinds up from the reservoir, was delightful. Downward trending, it went more quickly. And all the views were more expansive, some of them startling so.
