Picture This: Yosemite Camping Then and Now

I don't know exactly what draws me to some photos. I could make up all sorts of fancy reasons why (cue the snooty voice); the composition of the frame intrigues me, the subject matter juxtaposed with the organic nature of the piece is stunning, drawing the eye to the infinite reality of the universe as a whole...

In reality, I just know what I like.  A lot of the time it has more to do with the era it was taken, or the good memories it conjures up while I look at it. I'm sure all of you have a photo that is the polar opposite of "art" but you proudly keep it on your mantel (or as the screen shot on your iPhone) anyway. Out of focus, off kilter, bad composition--it doesn't matter, it's a keeper. Because you like it.

This is one of those for me:

Yosemite Camping circa 1950's: (Photo Credit: William Miller)

I wasn't even there when this was taken: Heck, Mark and I weren't even alive when this was taken. It's a shot of Mark's family's campsite in Yosemite, probably sometime in the 50s. If you look closely you can see a play pen set up for one of Mark's uncles, and all the towels (both dish and swim) were strung up on the line between the pine trees. The family is gathered around the picnic table (playing Yahtzee, if my experience with that side of the family is any guide) and chatting it up. Mark's extended family went to Yosemite every summer and spent a week playing in the river and walking around the valley. That tradition has continued to this day: our Yosemite trip every summer is an extension of that when we join Mark's sister, cousins, mother, aunts, uncles and all the kids that have cropped up over the years for a week of swimming in the river, walking around the valley and eating popsicles whenever we can get away with it.

Mark's grandfather was a photography enthusiast, taking photos on vacations and bringing the film(!) back to his house in San Francisco to develop in his basement. Those were the good old days when you could have all those nasty chemicals laying around (come on in kids! I'll show you how to process film. Nah, you won't need gloves...) He probably dumped those same chemicals down the drain when he was through too. Things were simpler, if not more dangerous, back when we didn't know any better. Of course, Grandpa lived well into his nineties, so maybe there's something to this living dangerously thing. Hmmm...

Anyway, I really like this photo because for me it symbolizes the essence of camping. When I look at it I like to imagine camping in Yosemite before it was overrun and over-regulated. Even then it was hard to get a campsite--my mother-in-law tells me her father used to send her ahead of the family car to ask each family if they were leaving that day and could we have your site?--but it was still possible to get one the day you showed up.  None of this logging in from three computers five months in advance, frantically pressing the refresh button as you watch all the available campsites disappear before your eyes.

I like the way the photo is dark, and a little smoky. And I really appreciate the way you can barely make out any other campers in the background; the sites seemed more spaced out then or perhaps so much foliage has been trampled and ripped up now that there's nothing to shield you from your fellow campers anymore. It looks like you could walk to the end of the road and find yourself alone in the forest.

For comparison's sake, here's a photo of our campsite last summer in Yosemite:

Yosemite's Upper Pines Campground, 2013

Sure, it's a little less smoky--the park has put a moratorium on campfires in the daylight hours--but you could hardly call it secluded. A concrete pad with a picnic table and a bear bin to call your own, the invisible barriers known only to the seasoned campers to hold your place in the dirt. Of course, Yosemite is full of un-seasoned campers, so expect people of all nationalities to traipse right through your site at any moment. Privacy is not an option so it's best to just roll with it.

Even with the crowds though, I will never tire of Yosemite. It's one of those special places that cannot be compared to anywhere else on earth. It works to our advantage that most people don't have the time or the energy to get much past the turnouts and overlooks. If you're willing to go a bit farther, you can find yourself alone in some of the most spectacular scenery you will ever see in your lifetime.

So I will continue to press the refresh button madly (while reciting a few choice words) five months in advance of our next trip. Not because I enjoy it, but because I have to. To skip a year would be a shame and an early morning marathon session at the computer is worth a week in paradise, as crowded and overrun as it is. The family tradition has to carry on and it takes a concerted effort to bring everyone together for a week; Mark's sister gets on the phone a year and a day before the selected timeframe and keeps calling until she gets a reservation in the housekeeping units. When I start to wonder why we bother, I just look at that photo again and it helps me to remember.

And every year during all of this, somewhere up there Grandpa is looking down and smiling to himself:

"Sure didn't seem all that hard when I was doing it."

All I Want for Christmas

"All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth..."

That song was all too true for me this year. I had some dental work done and had temporary front teeth for a month, just getting the permanent ones put in place yesterday. That required not biting into anything over the crucial eating period of Thanksgiving weekend through the run up to Christmas. Thank goodness I got my new choppers in time for Christmas dinner or the season would have been much less bright for me.

So my first wish already came true. Now to work through the rest of my list:

I would like for people to stop littering. I have to say, it's improved greatly since I was a kid (either that or more people pick up after the slobs.) But I'd really like to take a long hike and not see one plastic water bottle or beer can the entire length of the trail.

I would like for the National, State and local parks to be fully funded. I think the parks are responsible for my sanity, and wouldn't it be great if they were always open so everyone could cure their mental tics? Hey, there's the campaign slogan: Trade Your Tics for Ticks!

I would like people to stop being afraid of things they don't understand. I had a co-worker who told me he would never go camping in Yosemite because he wasn't allowed to bring his gun (this was before they reversed themselves on firearms in National Parks.) He would never admit it to me, but I know this to be true: he was terrified of bears. Take some time, learn about whatever it is you are afraid of. Knowledge is power--don't let fear keep you from doing something you want to do.

And most of all, I would like for everyone to take a break at some point in the coming year and get up off the couch, walk out the door and enjoy the outdoors. Breath some real air, maybe smile and nod when you pass someone else along the way. You'll feel better, the person you passed will feel better and maybe, just maybe, the world will be a little bit better for it.

Merry Christmas everyone, and a very Happy New Year to you all.

Staying Out of the Picture

My mom likes to look over the photos we've taken after we come home from a trip. If she has any criticism it's usually "Why aren't there any pictures with people in them?"

I've never been comfortable in front of the camera; I'd much rather be behind it.  Here's proof that I should really stay behind it:

Fourth Grade was very cruel to me...

Yup. That's me in fourth grade, sporting what I thought was the coolest outfit my mom ever made for me. My hair, alas, has not improved with the years (it refuses to comb itself) and there are only more freckles now. At least my teeth have gotten better: three years of braces and a cap over the left tooth (that I broke when I fell off a bike trying to do tricks and literally bit the curb) have greatly straightened my smile.

There were hundreds of people at the lake that day.  I was able to get them out by waiting, then maneuvering so they were hidden from view behind the trees.

But it's not just my unwillingness to be photographed that keeps me out of the picture. I really enjoy vast open landscapes and like to imagine what it was like before we all showed up to trample the view. So I sit, sometimes for a long time, waiting for people to clear out before I snap the shutter. I like to get up earlier than the crowds in Yosemite just to get a shot devoid of hikers and tourists. There's something distracting about Aunt Edna's hot pink track suit popping up in the middle of the neutral shades of Yosemite valley. Sometimes it's necessary to get some perspective in a shot, and that's when I make Mark walk ahead so he can be my "Mark-o-Meter." He's a good sport.

Here's an example of the Mark-o-Meter at work:

Figure A: Tenaya Lake

Figure B: Mark's Rock in Tenaya Lake

It would be hard to figure out how big that boulder is without the second shot. I liked the way his blue shirt blended with the colors of the scene. This particular Mark shot always reminds me of why we go to Yosemite: it's one of the few places on earth where we can completely relax and be happy. Our annual trip to Yosemite always starts with a swim in Tenaya Lake; it's where we rinse off the worries (I'm pretty sure we're not polluting--I think the cold water neutralizes them.)

Mark and John Muir, hanging out.

I'm hardly a professional photographer; Mark is my go-to guy when I have questions about the camera features and settings. But I really enjoy trying to get the camera to see what I'm seeing, and nature has the best stuff to practice on. I could never do portraits. I feel so uncomfortable in front of the camera I think it would rub off on my subjects. I can't even get a decent picture of the dog most of the time.

Mark will sneak in a photo of me once in a while, and I guess I'm glad there's proof that I actually made the trip. But I'd really just rather look at the view...

Resting on Stanford Point, camera equipment on my back.
Yosemite NP

Blood, Sweat and Fears: Injuries on the Trail

I have heard it said that injuries are the most common within one mile of the home. It makes sense; I suppose we spend the majority of our time there. But it seems to fly in the face of Murphy's Law: anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. More specifically for Mark and I: the farther from home, the greater the chance of injury.

We've actually been pretty lucky injury-wise, but it's the near misses that are enough to make the hairs stand on end. One of the last trips we made to Death Valley (bad back flare up to the indispensable Mark) scared me enough to sign up for a Wilderness First Aid Training course just to brush up on my ancient first aid knowledge.

Hiking in Death Valley requires gobs of sunscreen and gallons of water.

When you think about injuries during a hike the big gory ones come to mind first: falling off cliffs, bear attacks, snake bites, avalanches--all threats that could end your life in an instant. In my experience it's more often the little things that start to snowball. I can't tell you how many times we've taken off on a trail "just to see where it goes" and come back hours later, dehydrated and hungry because we hadn't started out with the intention of doing a long hike. The trailhead was just there, and wouldn't it be cool to see where it goes? And whoa, this is pretty, let's just see what's around the corner... No water, no food, no extra clothing in case of a weather change. Stupid.

Go climb a rock, they said.
Half Dome, Yosemite National Park

Water

Dehydration is no joke. And it seems unnecessary to mention, but if you do remember to pack it along, don't forget to drink it. I'm embarrassed to tell you this, but on my first big hike in Yosemite I made some poor decisions that ended with me collapsing at the end. I really wanted to hike to Half Dome--it's the one you have to finish if you want to call yourself a Yosemite hiker--and I had trained for months. We loaded up on snacks and water and set off on the trail early in the morning. We made it to the top around noon, stopping long enough to admire the view and take a few pictures after eating lunch from our perch on the dome. We made our way back down pretty quickly, and as we got more and more tired we got more and more impatient with the crowds of people on the trails near Vernal and Nevada falls. We stopped a few times and had a little water, but in the end we just wanted to get back to our campsite, so we rushed down the mountain. At the base of the trail there's a snack bar and I was obsessed with the thought of an icy cold drink after 18 miles of dusty trail. We finally got to the snack bar and of course there was a long line of people waiting for their icy cold cokes. Augh! On our way down we had been worried that it would be closing soon, so we had run the last mile or so to make sure we got there in time. I think the running, then the sudden stopping combined with not drinking enough water got me. One minute I was standing in line, the next thing I knew Mark and some guy I never saw before were propping me up on a bench, asking if I was ok. Fainted dead away. Drink your water folks.

Blisters

The other little injury that's probably the most common is the lowly blister. It starts out just feeling a little uncomfortable--maybe a little burning area on a toe or the back of the heel. But if you don't stop to treat it/fix it/adjust the boots or socks it will bite you in the end. Here's a fine example of a post 16 mile hike injury:

Unhappy pinky toe leads to a miserable hike for Mark.

Get enough of those and you won't be walking too much farther. If you try to keep going while favoring your other foot, you just might end up with a sore hip or knee from throwing yourself off kilter. That leads to back pain in some people (me), which means you can't really carry your pack anymore, which means (when backpacking) no food, water, tent, sleeping bag...it's a slippery slope. Better to get a good pair of hiking boots properly fitted and broken in and a really good pair of hiking socks. There is no way your partner is going to want to carry his pack, your pack and your sorry self down the trail. It used to be moleskin was the only choice for blister care; it worked pretty well, but boy when you had to take it off you more than likely pulled off some skin with it. Ouch. There's a fairly new product out that is a toe saver. REI carries a BlisterMedic kit (BlisterMedic) that has a two layer system: first a layer of gel padding--it looks like gelatin--then a protective bandage. It really cools the burning and keeps the rubbing to a minimum.

Cuts and Scrapes

I once slipped on a rock and smashed my shin so hard I was convinced it was broken. I rolled up my pant leg slowly, not really wanting to see, and found an egg sized bump had already risen there, with a little blood just for show. Ice isn't plentiful out in the wilderness, so having a small towel or washcloth dipped in cool water really helps the swelling. And of course Advil.

The results of playing slip and slide down a gravel hill. Owl Canyon, Mojave Desert.

Mark is the king of cuts. Knives, saws, scissors, sharp places on the truck--they have all found him and made him bleed. We always carry a huge first aid kit in the truck with a wide assortment of bandages to cover most any occasion. We have a slightly smaller version that comes along on the trail with us, which we have used many many times.

Bugs and Mysterious Itchy Spots

It never fails; you've just gotten settled into your sleeping bag and have managed to almost drift off to sleep, when you hear "zzzzzzzzZZZzzzzzz" Mosquitoes are annoying, and if you're like me, cause big itchy bumps that hang around for days. Deet is the only thing we've ever found that actually keeps them away, but I hate putting it on. It smells like some sort of industrial product that should require personal protective gear to handle. On our Alaskan trip, it actually melted the paint off our camera case because we handled it so often with Deet on our hands. Once bitten though, there's not much you can do about the itching. Benadryl works ok, but only at night. I get really groggy when I take that stuff. There's a solution called Sting-Ease that works for about half an hour--enough time to forget it's itchy and hopefully be distracted enough to not start scratching again. It works on bee stings and other assorted itchy spots too, but the real cure is not to scratch them in the first place. Hard to do.

The Trip Stoppers

We have cut a few trips short due to injury over the years; twice because of bad backs flaring up. Nothing is as miserable as a pinched nerve in the back. Most everything on the human body is hung off the spine, and when it's acting up, every movement--from lifting to breathing--hurts. The best you can do is try to avoid it in the first place: core exercises and proper lifting. Seems like we all know how to lift properly, but the world just wasn't built with OSHA standards in mind. Try putting on a 60 pound backpack that's laying on the ground "properly" without help.

We are prepared for, but haven't yet had to deal with, broken bones, open wounds, heat stroke and eye injuries. Frankly, I don't ever want to deal with them and the fact that we have the kit to help makes me feel better about never needing it. It's that old Murphy's Law again: if you don't have it with you, you'll surely need it. Conversely I figure if we've got it, we'll never have to use it.  I know, irrational, but it works for me.

A fall from here would be fatal (but at least we wouldn't have to worry about our medical coverage.)

As we get older, I get more worried about something more catastrophic than blisters or cuts happening on the trail. We've taken the 8 hour class that covered the basics of first aid (from Sweet Otter), but I'm now thinking of taking the full certification class to drill in more techniques. There's a certain Catch-22 to aging; we finally have the money, knowledge and equipment to get farther out into the wilderness just as our bodies are starting to whine about going farther out into the wilderness.

Youth really is wasted on the young isn't it?

Happy (and Maturing) Hikers: the Running From Moose Team

Natural Born Thieves

Ground squirrel eyeballing his next victim, Glacier National Park

I came within two inches of running over a squirrel with my bicycle this morning.

It ran across the trail and, just as I was about to pass it, reversed direction and darted in front of me again. Everything would have been fine but it suddenly became indecisive (in that typical squirrel way) and did a little 'oh...this way, no...that way' dance in front of my tire before heading off the trail. If I hadn't braked hard I would have run it over. Why do they do that?

The main goal of every living thing is to eat and avoid being eaten; in other words, to continue to be a living thing. Maybe reversing directions quickly is a squirrel's way of avoiding a predator, but that strategy sure doesn't work too well when it comes to bikes and cars. You can't swing a dead squirrel in my neighborhood without hitting another one. The fatality rate seems to be made up for by sheer volume: there are legions of squirrels running around overhead feasting on the nuts that proliferate in our formerly-a-walnut-orchard neighborhood. The squirrels also inadvertently guarantee future crops by burying the walnuts in everyone's yard--there are little walnut trees popping up in our garden every year.

The Western Gray squirrels around our house are the urban cousins to the ground squirrels you come across in the mountains. Ironically, I think the "country bumpkin" squirrels possess more street smarts than the average city squirrel ever will.

On a camping trip at Lake Shasta when I was little, we came back from swimming one day and found our brand new loaf of bread had a perfect tunnel running all the way through it. Through the wrapper, down the middle and out the other end; if you looked at it from the side you'd never know it had been touched. Apparently they didn't like the crust (not unlike my little brother during that time period).

A trip to Zion National Park ended with a small hole nibbled into every plastic container we had left within reach, including the mustard and ketchup bottles. One of the most brazen bits of thievery happened along Hat Creek: we had just set up camp and were sitting down next to the water when we heard something in the camper. The door was propped open since it was pretty hot that day, and just as we got close a squirrel vaulted out right in front of us. It had climbed up the stairs into the camper, gotten up on the counter, chewed a hole in the net bag that holds our fruit and eaten about a quarter of an apple--all in the five minutes we had left it unattended. Little bastard.

Home invasion evidence.

Birds are another challenge. There are signs posted at the Mather campground at the Grand Canyon warning of the ravens that raid campsites. On our way out one morning we saw the aftermath of a raven party (a rave?); a roll of paper towels was completely unraveled and draped in the trees, bits of cardboard boxes were laying on the ground, and an entire roll of aluminum foil was pulled up over the table and chairs, looking like a shiny Escher staircase. Overturned cups and plates were scattered all over the place and, just to add insult to injury, the birds were standing on the camp stove admiring their handiwork. It was hilarious, but only because we weren't the ones that had to clean it up. 

Raven checking purchases, Village Store, Yosemite National Park

And then there are the marmots.

I've come to think of them as the grumpy old men of the high country. Countless times we have huffed and puffed our way to some windblown isolated mountain destination, finally reaching the top after hours of hiking in high altitude, just to be greeted by a fat marmot waiting for us to put our pack down so he (they're always a he, I just know it) can steal what little food we had left. It's such a lazy way to make a living, kind of like a thief hanging out in front of an ATM. They're no dummies; they seem to know you've used up all your energy to get there and will be an easy mark. At the top of Half Dome, Mark and I collapsed on a rock shelf, congratulating each other on making it up the cables, only to have our grapes stolen right out of our pack in the first two minutes. We saw one along a trail in Alaska, so brazen he didn't even move when we passed within two feet of him. He just stared at us with his beady eyes, probably tabulating how many granola bars he could steal using the slump of our shoulders and the dragging of our boots as a benchmark.

Marmots are just big enough that you probably wouldn't want to mess with them. They have sizable teeth for chewing on grasses, pine cones, and backpack webbing; some of them weigh in at ten pounds or more. In Yosemite, they tend to burrow under the granite slabs, popping out when you least expect them. They don't have that nervous squirrel behavior either; they're more sedate, giving you the impression they aren't paying any attention to you. They are not to be trusted.

Marmot acting casual, Exit Glacier Trail, Kenai Fjords National Park

One thing I've always liked about camping and hiking is that there is (generally) still respect for other's property. I wouldn't dream of leaving my stove and dining room chairs out in the front yard while I go off for the day, but we routinely do that at our campsites. Granted, the stove and camp chairs aren't quite as valuable, but an impressive show of civility all the same. I think it's funny that in all the years we've done this, the most damage or stolen property we've had has been perpetrated by the furry "locals."

So watch out the next time you're out in nature. Disney was completely off track when he depicted the woodland creatures as being helpful and kind. They're crafty and underhanded, disguising their thieving ways with soft fur and big brown eyes. And take my advice: when you reach the top of the mountain, don't take your eyes off that backpack.

A coyote gets his man. Bodie State Park, CA

Yosemite Hike 2013: Waterwheel Falls

Clearly, I don't walk the talk.

This year I did not follow my very own training schedule before our trip to Yosemite. I even committed the worst offense of feet everywhere: I didn't break in my brand new boots before leaving. Thankfully though, they were a perfect fit and I didn't have any problems with them--not even one blister in the 16/17.4/ 20 miles we hiked (the exact miles are unclear, but I'll explain that later). My trouble was getting my feet to move.

I could go on about the various reasons I didn't do any training, but they're really just excuses. The true reason boils down to laziness and inertia, and boy did I pay.

Pitiful Yosemite Falls this year.

It's been such a dry year (it rained in California all the way up until December, when the great spigot in the sky decided to shut off and stay off); there was very little water in the falls. The snow had all but melted and Yosemite Falls was a trickle, barely visible at times. The one bonus was the river was about 10 degrees warmer, which made swimming much more enjoyable, albeit a bit more shallow. It also seemed to be affecting tourism; there were actually vacancies at most of the lodges and cabins in the valley. That never happens in the summertime in my experience.

The valley this year, hot and dry (as viewed from
Glacier Point); note the absence of snow on the higher peaks.

Mark gave me a book about the history of Yosemite after our first trip there together, and he's been regretting it ever since. It's packed with pictures from the old days in the park and also lists its unusual features; it's where I first saw a picture of Waterwheel Falls. I pointed it out to him and said "I want to go see that!" He said it was too far, it would have to be a backpacking trip. I wasn't convinced. So when he asked me back in May what the big hike was going to be this year I said Waterwheel. I researched it and my hiking book said it was 16 miles round trip and only 400 feet elevation gain/loss. We had done 14 miles last year, all uphill with a gain of 3000 feet, so how hard could it be? Indeed.

Tuolumne Meadow, 7:00am

So on the appointed morning, we got up at 5:30am and drove out of the valley and up Tioga Road to Tuolumne Meadows, the jumping off point for the hike. It was at least 20 degrees cooler up there--Tuolumne Meadows is at 8000 feet, 4000 feet above the valley. We parked the truck and started down the trail around 7:00am. The first thing we saw was a metal sign: Waterwheel Falls 8.7 miles. What??? The guide book lied.

Upper meadow on the Tuolumne River

The trail starts out fairly flat, going across the open meadow then up a short rise to meet the Tuolumne River. We followed the river for five miles in cool, beautiful morning light, all by ourselves save for a few backpackers that were packing out that morning. We crossed a footbridge at the top of Tuolumne Falls and made our way downhill to a viewpoint.

Tuolumne Falls

From there we made our way to Glen Aulin, a backcountry "camp" with tent cabins for the lucky few who score reservations there. Win a spot in one of these and you have the luxury to saunter the trail slowly and have a bed and meals waiting for you when you get there. We ate our granola bars with grubby hands and looked longingly at the "campers" who were no doubt eating pancakes and sipping coffee out of clean mugs.

The trail, ever so subtly taking us downhill into the canyon.

California Falls

The trail splits off from there; Waterwheel Falls is about 3 miles downstream from the fork. We followed the river down the gorge, passing California Falls and LeConte Falls on our way. We saw only four other people during this part of the hike; all backpackers on their way through. Mark kept asking me if I remembered what the falls looked like--there weren't any signs on the trail so you have to know what you're looking for. I assured him I did, I'd been looking at the picture so often it was burned into my brain. Just when we thought we might have passed it, there it was.


Waterwheel Falls gets it's name from the unusual granite formation it flows over. It's a granite dome, scrubbed smooth by glaciation. Somewhere along the way big pits have formed and as the water flows down the dome it hits the bowl-like holes and spits up into the air. If the water is high and fast enough, it actually circles back on itself forming a "waterwheel".

Waterwheel Falls

Rooster Tail where a waterwheel would be in a wet year.

Since it was a low water year, it was more of a "rooster tail" but it was pretty cool all the same. We crawled out as close as we felt was safe and took some pictures and a little movie (to prove we actually made it).

At that point it was 11:30 and it was pretty hot sitting on the open granite in the sun. We decided to find a shady spot to sit by the river and maybe soak our feet while we had some lunch. That was when I realized just how far downhill we had gone.

The 400 foot elevation loss the book noted was just to Glen Aulin (and it wasn't just one little slope--we gained and lost 400 feet several times over in that stretch). The last 3 miles to the falls was all downhill. I prefer not to go uphill in the second half of a long hike, I'd rather get it over with in the cooler morning when I actually have energy. We had left our GPS trail unit in the truck thinking we wouldn't need it so I've no idea how far down we had descended, but it was too much. Way too much.

We climbed back up the side of Waterwheel and LeConte, finding a nice place to sit and eat our beef jerky/apple/power bar lunch. It was beautiful. So beautiful it would have been nice to just lay back and take a nap. Unfortunately, it was past noon and we still had at least 7 more miles to make it back to the truck, then an hour and a half drive to get back to our campsite in the valley.

Our lunchtime view: LeConte Falls

Up, and a little down, then up, a few hundred feet of flat, then up some more. It got to the point where I could only look at my boot tops and concentrate on moving one, then the other. Why didn't I train? How could I have been so stupid? We stopped and had another apple at the top of Tuolumne Falls. I understand why people swim at the top of waterfalls in Yosemite. The pool of water is so tempting when you're exhausted and your sweat has solidified into dirty salt crystals on your arms legs and face.

This guy was mocking us, I have no doubt. I could hear the tiny sounds
of laughter at our expense as we (slowly) passed him on the trail.

After that snack we were in a little better shape. I wouldn't exactly call it a second wind, but we made pretty good time back to the truck, especially when it came into view across the meadow. I can really sympathize with the pack horses that clod up the trails then break into a sprint when they spot the barn.

The first thing we did when we reached the truck was open up the camper and grab the first cold drinks we could find, gulping them down. Nothing tastes better than cold lemonade after drinking lukewarm plastic water for 9 hours. Thankfully the traffic was light on Tioga Road and we made it back to camp by 5:30pm, just in time to jump in the river and wash the grime off before dinner.

A lucky shot--just happened to be sitting in front of this flower
holding the camera when this guy showed up.

I think hikes are a little like childbirth; after the pain fades you start thinking "hey, I'd like to do that again." That's what I'm thinking now, maybe in a high water year. But I'm also thinking I will not ignore the training part this time. Especially since I looked up this hike on the YosemiteHikes.com website when we got back home and they have the trail length listed at 20 miles.

I'll see your 20 and raise you two blisters...

Jerks and Jackasses

This is an open letter to all those people who have annoyed me over the years, ignoring campground rules, common courtesy, and generally ignoring the unwritten rules of polite human behavior. Too bad none of them will actually read this.

Dear Sirs and Madams,

I like to think of my fellow human beings as generally nice, altruistic even. Some of you have sorely tested this theory and I'd like to address these issues:

To the guy at the top of the Vernal Falls trail in Yosemite: was it really necessary to light up a cigarette as you blocked the trail, then toss it into the river when you were finished? I'm impressed you made it up there considering your tobacco addiction, but why must you litter? Why?

To the family who enjoyed a large spaghetti dinner in Sugar Pine Point State Park in Tahoe, then threw all the leftovers into the dumpster next to our camp and failed to close the lid (ignoring multiple warning signs about bear activity in the area). Were you trying to lure the bears in, or are you just illiterate? Just so you know, we chased the female bear and her cubs away at two in the morning, in the hopes of saving them from extermination for the bad habits you were encouraging.

To the older gentleman outside Lake Havasu who politely asked us if it was ok to run his generator for a few minutes to charge up his battery: when you said a few minutes we didn't realize you meant all night. I hope you got a good night's sleep because we laid awake and cursed your existence after trying unsuccessfully to knock on your door to ask you to turn it off. Maybe you just didn't hear us because your generator was so loud.

To the French-Canadian at the very crowded Many Glacier campground in Glacier National Park who, after passing up the campsite we decided to occupy, circled back and claimed he had already chosen it, but just hadn't paid for it yet: just so you know, we let you have it rather than make a scene in such a beautiful place. And we found a better one.

To the young men who set up camp next to us in the redwoods, opened the doors of their truck and started blasting heavy metal music: listening to your choice of music is generally not why we go camping. Especially when it makes our ears bleed.

To the boys that threw rocks off the overlook in Mesa Verde, narrowly missing us on the trail below: I'm sorry your parents wouldn't let you bring your Game Boys, but couldn't you find something else to occupy yourselves?

To the couple in the Plumas-Eureka campground who chose the site two spaces away, even though we were the only two vehicles in the entire park and there were fifty other spots to chose from: thanks for plugging in your generator and letting it run all day, then frowning at us the two times our dog barked. Apparently her noise was bothering you and I'm deeply (not at all) sorry.

Yosemite's Housekeeping units seem to attract a special breed:

• To the woman who thought it was a great idea to bring her trumpet camping, playing it well into the night: Wow. Just wow.
• To the family that pulled into camp past midnight and loudly unloaded their cars, shouting back and forth to each other as they set up camp, and even feeling it necessary to set the car alarm each and every time they left it to bring a load to the tent (Beep Beep! Beep Boop!): you guys are special. And great touch letting your little boy pee on the wall of your neighbor's unit.
• To the mother-son duo who were occupying the unit behind ours that stayed up until 2:00am getting drunk and arguing loudly, even after repeated warnings from camp security to quiet down: no one cared who said what to who. In fact, we were all rooting for you to strangle each other just so we could get some rest.
• To the unknown punks that slashed every other tire in the parking lot: say hi to the prison guards for us. Oh, and be careful in the showers...

February at Yosemite's Housekeeping Camp: the only time of year it's quiet.

And to the hundreds, if not thousands of decent, wonderful people we have shared camp with over the years; those who were friendly, who picked up trash even when it wasn't theirs and waved hello to be neighborly; to the guy who offered to help us change a tire on a brutally hot Death Valley backroad; to the couple that were taking off on a long backpacking trip and left us their extra food; to the older gentleman that brought firewood over when he saw we didn't have any; to the many campground hosts that made it their priority to make sure we had a good stay; to all the people that make camping a joy, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You are the icing on the outdoor cake, what makes a great experience excellent. People like you far outnumber the clueless, ignorant nincompoops and for that I am sincerely grateful. 

Respectfully yours,

Kelly

Are we the only ones that are so lucky? Tell me about your worst experience with a fellow camper or hiker in an email (runningfrommoose@gmail.com) and I'll include it in a future post--credited to you of course! 

Up, Up and Away: Hiking in Yosemite

It's time to start looking for a challenging new hike for this year's trip to Yosemite. I tease Mark about torturing him every year, making him come along on a forced march, but more accurately I'm torturing myself; Mark is in much better shape than I ever hope to be.

There are hundreds of hiking trails to choose from and they are all beautiful in their own way. There are the big famous ones: Vernal and Nevada Falls, Yosemite Falls, Half Dome. These are the trails that get hundreds of people a day trekking up and down in such numbers that hardly a vista point can be seen for the flailing legs, arms and cameras (If a trail is hiked in a crowd, does it have scenery?). There are the lesser known trails that don't have as many grand views, but offer closer looks at the granite walls and river habitat in the valley. Then there are the ones that are so gut-busting very few people are willing to try them and they have spectacular scenery to boot. Those are the ones I look for.

View from Yosemite Valley floor

Part of the excitement of any trip is in the planning. I have a thick California Hiking book (Foghorn Press) I've used for every trip we've done and it's a great help. I also love the website Yosemite Hikes (http://www.yosemitehikes.com); whoever writes the descriptions on this site deserves a Webby. Funny, informative, and once you finish the prescribed hike, so true (sometimes sadly so--ALWAYS take their advice, trust me on this). I would love to live in Yosemite from mid-May through September every year and do nothing but hike each trail listed. Unfortunately, I have not yet become independently wealthy (not for lack of wishing), so I have to be satisfied with a week a year sometime around the end of July and make the experience count.

If you've ever visited Yosemite Valley in the summer I don't have to tell you how crowded it can get. If you are one of the lucky ones to have scored reservations at a campground or cabin you pretty much have to park the car and leave it there until it's time to go home. There are virtually no parking spots during the day and the traffic can get so backed up it looks like the MacArthur Maze met Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. It's really best to walk or take the shuttle bus once you get there. With that in mind, I try to plan hikes that take off from the valley either within walking distance from our camp spot or from a shuttle stop. Of course, the only way out of the valley is up--3,000+ feet depending on your destination--so it's a good idea to do a little training before you get there.

I would love to say that I get up at the crack of dawn and run like the wind for an hour, then hop on my bike and ride to work by way of the next county...but it's a good day when I get the milk on the cereal and the OJ in the glass without switching it up, so I do what passes for training after work. I start in March just walking around the neighborhood, going farther out as it stays lighter during the month. Then I start wearing a backpack with a few things in it, gradually adding weight as my feet and knees get used to the extra pressure. Although it's a little challenging to find a decent hill around town, I find them on the weekends and walk up and down with the goal of having my lungs stay inside my chest (I just hate it when they try to crawl out--it's so inconvenient). I'll admit, no matter how diligent I am about this process, once we get to Yosemite I still have to acclimate for a few days. The valley is 4,000 feet above sea level, which doesn't sound like much until you try to climb a few thousand more. That little difference in oxygen really takes away your gusto.

6:30am: On the way up Four Mile Trail, gusto leaking out by the minute.

Once we get to the park we usually spend the first day walking around the valley. It's really amazing sometimes; with all the thousands of visitors in Yosemite on any summer day, walk down the side trails just a hundred feet from the road and you find yourself all alone. After careful study, I have come to an (admittedly unscientific) conclusion: people are lazy. We've walked by a shuttle bus stop at a popular wayside and passed a hundred people waiting to get on a bus that holds fifty. Then we've walked along in the same direction as the bus and met it unloading those very people at the next stop. I much prefer the quiet and solitude, so I guess I should thank them for not cluttering up the trail.

There are, apparently, people on the opposite side of the spectrum. Once, while waiting our turn at the visitor information desk, a gentleman with a heavy accent dressed in matching olive green shirt and shorts, long wool socks, hiking boots and an impressive knee brace was demanding to know where the trail to the top of Yosemite Falls was located as he planned to hike it that afternoon. It was fairly late in the day and the ranger was trying to impress upon him how strenuous it was and how long it would take to complete.

Ranger: "It takes 6 to 10 hours to hike it round trip, and it gets dark quickly in the valley."
Knee Brace Man: "Where does this trail begin?"
Ranger: "It's 2600 feet of switchbacks up the valley wall."
Knee Brace Man: "But where do I go to start this trail?"
Ranger: "We really don't like to have to send the helicopter after people who get stuck on the trails. It's very expensive and endangers our crews."
Knee Brace Man: "But where can I find this trailhead?"
Ranger: "It's a very hard trail and with an injured knee, I wouldn't recommend it."
Knee Brace Man: "But is it hard for a German?"

Yosemite rangers are saints. I know what I would have said, but the ranger just smiled and told him to start his hike in the morning. He never did tell the guy where to find the trailhead though.

That brings me to another unscientific-but-interesting observation as a hiker on the trails of Yosemite. Americans will, almost without fail, say hello when passing on a trail. If they are particularly tired, it comes out more as a panting grunt, but they acknowledge you in passing. The Japanese tourists will nod and smile and make sure to leave plenty of room to pass (which is MUCH appreciated on the narrow parts of the trail with steep drop-offs). In general though, Europeans will not make eye contact, do not acknowledge your presence, and occasionally pretend you don't even exist. I have a German friend who explained to me how long it took to get used to strangers talking to her in the supermarket here in the US. She said in her country you just don't talk to people you don't know (which made me wonder how in the world you ever make friends, but I digress). So it makes more sense now, but I still find it a little off-putting, especially when you haven't seen anyone for hours and it would be nice to think if they came across your lifeless body lying prone in the middle of the trail they would at least stop to check for a pulse.

While we're meandering off topic, another trail observation: When you're in your eleventh hour of hiking and you're coming down off the trail, you can sometimes catch a whiff of shampoo or cologne or general cleanliness as you pass the fresh new hikers starting up the trail. Then in a moment of panic, you wonder, what in the world are they smelling coming off of me?

So anyway, I'm still mulling over which trail to choose this year. Only one thing is for sure: we'll be heading uphill soon.

The view from Panorama Trail. The lump of bare granite in the upper right is the side of Half Dome, and the valley below is the home of Nevada and Vernal Falls.