The prevailing wind

Lambert Dome

I might get up early, but we never get an early start. Not with Lilalee. I don't mind. It's vacation. I've got Lambert Dome on the brain. Besides, the wind has shifted. The fire has reversed. The route is clear. We have all day to drive 4 leisurely hours.

We piddle around in Oakhurst for a couple of hours. We get gas. We get a sack lunch. We stop at an art gallery where she buys some lovely gimchee to show all our friends.

When we reach the Park's south entry, there's a 10-minute line of cars. We're getting off easy for Yosemite at the end of summer. Must be the fire.

I flash my Senior Pass. A young woman with a big smile, broad rimmed hat and a brass badge hands us a copy of the "Daily Yosemite," with its up-to-date listing of campfire talks. She warns us that 120 west of Crane Flat is closed and waves us on. She seemed a happy sort. I'm sorta happy myself. It's Yosemite.

Tunnel View

The road winds north along a west facing ridge above and parallel to the south fork of the South Merced. When the River bends west, the road continues north through a series of hairpin turns, past the cut-off to Badger Pass and down the tunnel to the valley floor, but not before opening up that holy-shit view of Yosemite that no camera can capture. From there we weave through the erratic valley traffic and follow the loop around to The Big Oak Cut-off and then up to Crane Flat.

For the first time, we smell the fire. It smells like the Station Fire which rampaged through the mountains above our house. The smell is misleading. At first it seems reassuring like a crackling fire on a winter's night. The true evil is abstract at a distance. Then it approaches. Choking murk pervades the air. Ash rain blankets everything in an acrid grey. The night sky pulses with the lurid oranges and whites that radiate from the smoke as it climbs into the dark. It was transfixing spectacle that we prayed would stay away.

We pass few cars as we climb into the high country. Then, about a mile from the White-Wolfe Cutoff, we see a fire truck and a dozen cars pulled to the shoulder. A crowd has gathered; some are pointing off to the north. We pull over.

In direction of Hetch-Hetchy, may be four miles distant, we see flames licking over a ridge. The smoke churns away to the northeast. A SuperScooper approaches from the west, briefly swoops below the ridge and reappears in a roaring climb. A white steam emerges. A chopper races over our heads. A minute later it drops red fire retardant on the active flame. Those gutsy hotshots must be out there, somewhere, saving buildings but losing forest. As we leave, I mull over the mismatch. We influence, but we can't control.

We decide to drive to the Yosemite Creek Campground for lunch. The route takes us over the old road, The Great Tioga Wagon Road. We bounce hard along the deep ruts. Our heads bobble and insides slosh. Any evidence of humanity or road maintenance seems lost to history. The forest is ancient, dense and directionless. We creep over a narrow section along a steep drop and Lilalee suggests we've gone far enough. We grab our sack lunches and perch side-by-side on a nearby log.

"This is lovely," she says. "Easy too."

"Hmmm." I say, but really thinking the sandwich is quite tasty. I want to make out the lay of the land despite the trees. I figure the Campground must have been just ahead. Five minutes at most.

"Can it get nicer than this?" she says. "We didn't even have to march off into the wilderness."

A little alarm connected to my 6th-Lilalee sense goes off. Reflexively I begin to collect scattered thoughts. "It's different. It's a whole experience."

"You mean a challenge?"

"I guess. Sure it's a challenge."

"Then you're trying to proving something?"

"I don't think so."

"Can't you have a challenge without marching off into the wilderness by yourself? Isn't that a bit risky?"

"It's not really that risky. Is there a point?"

Lilalee put down her sandwich, slides off the log and stands before me with crossed arms. "Are you in some kind of existential crisis? Tell me the truth."

"Come on. A lot of people want to do this. They just want to experience life. Is there something wrong with that?"

"I'm not talking about a lot of people."

I'm gripped by this little knot of defiance. I just want to eat my sandwich and listen to the trees. Of course, my little mood resistance is utterly transparent to Lilalee.

"Please, put your sandwich down. This will just take a minute," she says. "You're no kid. You had a good career. Is this how you want to spend your days? Hiking to prove yourself?

"It's not like that. It's just you out there in the mountains. It's raw. You have to confront things."

"Like what?"

"The elements. Fears. Mental toughness. We'll need for plenty of that won't we?"

"Don't be morbid," she says knowing she will not get satisfaction. At least not today. "I only wanted to say you don't have to be Shackleton."

Out of nowhere there's an urgent honking. A light-green pickup with flashing yellow lights comes down the slope. An armed park ranger hops from the cab. He is all business. "You folks must leave. We're evacuating the area. Are you camped?"

"Just having lunch." I could have added, 'A tense one.'

"Good. Please leave as soon as you finish." With that he climbs back in the cab and drives off in the direction of the campground.

"Then I guess we should eat up." says Lilalee with a mock seriousness in order to cheer things up—which I appreciate.

We finish our sandwiches. Our little tiff weighs on me; there's some truth. I know what she's really thinking. This thru-hiking thing is self-involved. It's been gnawing at me like that silly, reckless, profound thru-hiker's creed, "Death to all fear mongers." It's a license for Willfulness granted by the authority of Defiance. Thing is; I seem to have obtained one. That was fine once. Time counts more now. Does an adventure or experience really matter more than a gnat's ass? Maybe.

We are soon back on the highway. The panoramas of Yosemite Granite unfolds. We pass Olmstead point. Our spirits lift. We spot the trail heads we once hiked. "Look. Porcupine Creek. Remember the hail?" We skirt Poly Dome and The Meadows opens up. Lambert Dome, loyal as ever, stands off to the east. We turn at the Wilderness Center and park in the Lodge lot. At the desk we learn that Ann has arranged a two-bed tentcabin for us. Luxury! We can snore without restraint. Ann is a saint.

We haul our gear, enough for a world tour, to our tent, and go looking for Ann and her friends. They've left a note for us. They are hiking Gaylor Lake and want to meet us for dinner.

I have time to leg it over to Dog Lake. Just the thing to get out the kinks. Lilalee stays behind with her poetry.

Dog Lake

The afternoon is fading. The woods behind Lambert Dome are open. It's a small climb over a well-trod trail. There are no other hikers today. I top the last rise. The lake is rippled by a slight breeze and is as blue as the sky. Mt. Conness and Ragged Peak stand in the distance. I find a grassy spot in dappled shade. A doe nibbles a spice bush not 20 feet away. I remember the Picky Bar in my pocket and chew slowly as the shadows spread across the water. There's no explaining this.

I return from the lake on the west fork which skirts the meadow and under Lambert Dome. A free climber is spidering up the Dome's north wall under his partner's watchful eye. The climber points northwest. The fire has intensified. The smoke is climbing and drifting far to the north. It must be terrifying if you're a hotshot. I dally a bit more to watch the climber. He is moves with the grace of a dancer. He is fearless.

I hear Ann and her friends. We're to eat at the Mobile Station. Good by me. Tomorrow we hike Lyell Canyon. After lunch, I'll hope to shoot for Ireland Lake. It all depends on the prevailing wind.