Yosemite Sam

"If you lose your footing, powerful currents will carry you over the falls," a sign alongside Yosemite Creek reads, right before the waters there spill 2,500 feet over the edge.  "There's no second chance."  I'd spent several hours hiking up to this point, and was now maneuvering along the rocks that bound the creek, angling to position myself near the discharge point, where I could catch my breath and spend a moment watching and listening to the falls.  After all, life, in a way, is a constant pursuit of moments.

The trail to this point had been steep.  By my crude math, it is 10-15% more vertical gain per step than the trail to summit Half Dome.  If you make it to the top, though, you unlock a number of new options...  

I had arrived in Yosemite Valley on Friday night, happy to set up my campsite under the light of the long day.  From my seat by the fire pit, Half Dome was off just slightly to the right, hunkering as it does over the valley like an old Samoan man puzzling over a chess move.  It was obscured by a stand of attention-seeking ponderosa pine trees, each of them the height of a tall building.  Slightly to the left of all that was a recess occupied by Mirror Lake, then a sharp vertical back up to North Dome, and following that track, Yosemite Falls, Eagle Peak, and at this point, very far to the left, El Capitan.  El Cap is routinely mentioned in discussions of the world's most iconic rock climbs, and near to its base sits something called Camp 4, a campground and hangout for climbers¹.  Camp 4 is also the starting point for the Upper Yosemite Falls hiking trail, which in turn can be extended downrange to the top of El Capitan.  My plan for Saturday was to take that trail and reach the top of the falls, then assess the situation and then continue on to somewhere new - maybe El Capitan, or maybe one of the other nearby peaks.

Early Saturday morning I emerged from my tent and was startled to hear a bear growling at me.  Wait, not a bear.  It was somebody in a tent two campsites away, snoring his face off.  I walked across the valley to the trailhead, shed some outer layers, and started uphill.  The park was full, but quiet.

I knew the first part of the day's hike from a trip several years ago.  This time, with no snow on the ground, it was easier.  I spent my time at the top, and then continued back toward the trail that heads north to Eagle Peak and El Cap.  I was unsure of which of those destinations to devote my energy to, until I met a pair of hikers, two young women, coming back the other way, backpacks full with gear.  "Are you guys coming from Eagle Peak?" I asked.  It was still early enough that I didn't believe they could have gone any farther.  "We actually went to El Cap yesterday and camped," one of them answered.  I asked for their recommendation.  "El Cap is kind of a rounded top, and you can't see the valley floor, and you can't get close to the edge," the blonde one offered quite earnestly.  "If you want a sheer cliff you should go to Eagle Peak," the other chimed in.  They were both very friendly, and I accepted their advice.

The experience now took on a different character.  Rather than fighting for balance on rugged dropoffs, I was ambling along a pine-needled path, where I encountered various forks for other trails, and at one point, a somewhat mysterious beanstalk meadow.

Eventually, the trail to Eagle Peak³ pushes you back out to the edge of the rock face, and when it does the valley - and with it, the entire High Sierra - opens up spectacularly.  There is a miracle in practically every direction.

I found a shady spot to sit and eat lunch, and then moved back out toward the edge and stood in the silence for some time.  Silence interspersed with the chirping of birds is still silence in my book.

I wanted to take a shower in Curry Village when I got back down to the valley floor, but with the summer crowds, the logistics of getting around was undesirable, so I settled for a recuperative nap instead.  That night, I burned the largest fire the north has ever seen a campfire and cooked some food on the portable stove² I bought for a trip to Utah several months ago.  This time, I had real meat, seasoning, and cooking oil - all the makings of a gourmet feast.  I ate in an ethereal glow, content with the surroundings.  Twilight, especially here, has a way of teasing you into believing it will last forever.  As the shadows of trees became erie, I ventured back into the meadow area.  A very full moon had exploded over the ridge line, trimming in silhouette the granite forms all around.  A rock climber's light blinked on the northwest face of Half Dome.  The next morning, this place would dispense, ever-renewed, its supply of tidings and comforts, and I would cook breakfast and brew coffee under a stand of pine trees.

¹Among those who frequented the campground in its heydey: Yvon Chouinard, founder of the Patagonia clothing line.

²I strongly recommend one of these for anyone who spends nights in the outdoors.  They are cheap, easy to pack, and perform really well.

³ EDIT: After I posted this Sunday night, I learned that Eagle Peak is actually part of - well, actually the very highest part of - a rock formation called Three Brothers, which I've photographed from the ground before (in this photo, you can see Yosemite Falls in the distance).  The classic shot of Three Brothers comes from Cathedral Beach, below El Capitan.  The peaks are much less distinct from the other direction.