It is the middle of the night. I startle from a deep sleep. Someone is shining a light on me in my tent. I fumble for my glasses and stare out. There are three headlamps. Three shadowy figures. I shield my eyes.
The figures say:
"This is
our site."
"The motherfucker."
"Let's make him move."
My adrenaline is pumping. My thoughts clear. "Go away. I'm trying to sleep."
They reply:
"We were here first."
"Told you this would happen."
"Asshole."
Someone from across the way yells, "Quiet."
They tone it down:
"Let's split before a ranger comes."
"What about our stuff?"
"Fuck him. Fuck the ranger."
They head over to the bear locker. It opens with a screech and a clank. They bang around in there. I holler, "Don't touch that canister!"
One shouts back,"Fuck you."
I grab my pants and thrash about trying to get my feet through. A leg gets caught on a something. I can't find my light. Thwarted, frustrated; I stop struggling. What would I to do anyway? Three of them. Me?
I hear their gathered voices across the way. The locker clanks shut and they crunch off in the darkness. It is still again. The frogs and crickets resume their chant. I slip on my camp shoes and climb out to check. The canister is untouched. I undress and lie sleepless forever, listening for any cracking sound in the trees.
By the time I awake, the sun is already flickering through the trees. My thoughts are as clear as mud; my legs are lead. The coffee and freeze-bag oatmeal help, but I'm all jitters. My motivation is gone; I want to quit; go home; shower and lay on the couch.
Then something automatic kicks in. I force myself to break camp. I shoulder the pack and begin walking in the direction of Harden Lake. It's one foot in front of the other until I lose time and find my pace. Then the trail beckons and I'm striding along with that feeling of independence that comes from being one with a pack on your back.
The route to Harden Lake follows the old Tioga Road above the middle fork of the Tuolumne. A blackish trickle meanders in the wash below. I try to image the wagons that drove through here hauling supplies up to and silver down from Tioga Pass.
After a mile, the trail veers onto a single track and descends through a burn zone. The Rim fire burned through here a year ago, but the air is acrid as a whiff of last night's campfire. There are few signs of rebirth, but the desolation is menacing and primal.
Past the burn zone, the woods thicken and fingers of a bracing and chilly fog seep into the woods. The cool air feels good. I breathe deeply and realize: despite all the tumult, my breathing was good all night. No panting. No altitude illness! Maybe I have beat the demon.
At first sight, Harden lake is a shriveled disappointment of the place we picnicked a decade ago. The shore has retreated; grasses are are brittle and brown. I find the very boulder where Lilalee sunned and read a passage from a European poetess I'd never hear of and don't remember. It's lapping of the shore I remember.
No reason to stop. I turn east. The descent and the desire to see carry me along. I cross a steamy meadow in the last blush of its spring bloom, a slippery seep swarming with mosquitoes, and an open airy woods. A breeze kicks up. Big, bright, battleship clouds steam across the sky. I come to a outcrop with a grand view across Tuolumne Canyon. I drop my pack, grab a Picky Bar and get comfortable. Matterhorn canyon is out there. I'll be there in a couple of days.
 |
| View across Tuolumne Canyon. |
Tuolumne is a bustle. Cars, tour buses and RVs stream past. Clots of tourists kick up dust clouds as they cross the meadow to Parson's Lodge. Brightly-colored climbers dangle from Lambert Dome. Backpackers by the hundreds shuffle along in every direction. Everywhere you look, people are busy being on vacation.
I pull into the Tuolumne Market to use the pay phone. I promised to let Lilalee know everything is fine. I pass a group of gritty hikers laying about the shaded picnic tables by the phones. A deeply-tanned young woman with hair tied up in a bandanna and wearing a stained, yellow crew-neck has attracted a circle of trim young men. They wear REI approved sunglasses, have flat stomachs, tan legs and long hair. She sips a beer while one offers advice for shooing off a bear.
I leave Lilalee a message and go inside to renew my supply of energy bars. While on line to pay, I overhear a woman in a spotless pair of hiking pants, new boots and gold earrings complain about the wait to enter the park. "It's just awful." The man next in line agrees with a pitying nod, but he may just be trying to avoid a conversation.
I leave the market and start driving around for a place to park for four days. I get lucky. I find a spot north of Lambert Dome across from the best bear lockers in Tuolumne. I've tried them all: the Wilderness Center, Lambert Dome, Tuolumne Lodge, the Cathedral Lakes, or Elizabeth Lake. There's no better bear boxes this side of Murphy Creek. There's no trash. A human can open the doors. There's so much available space here you could have an entire locker to yourself for days. Don't tell anyone.
I close up the car, heft my pack and cross the highway to the Wilderness Center. There must be a fifty backpackers prepping for the trail: changing clothes, stuffing gear, and sorting through resupply boxes. Some are sleeping on the hoods on their cars; others gathered in lunch pow-wows.
I queue for my permit. I'm tenth in line behind a couple. When we exchange pleasantries. He is a half-head taller than me, athletic, pre-maturely grey hair, boyish face, shinning teeth and strong chin. She is long necked with clear skin, long dark hair, attentive deep-blue eyes, and an alluring figure. Men and women are stealing glances at her. She is not quite young enough to be his daughter.
"Looks like we've got a wait." I say in a cheery attempt not to sound like some funny-looking bald guy.
"Goes fast," he says.
The line advances and we shuffle our packs forward.
"Where you headed?" I ask.
"We're doing the JMT... if we get a permit."
"We will get a permit," she asserts. "Quit fretting." She gives him a mock scowl and then pulls three Hacky Sacks from her pack and starts to juggle.
"You?" he asks taking no notice of the juggling.
"Matterhorn Canyon," I answer staring at her. "She's juggling," I add as if it wasn't perfectly obvious.
"She does that," he says.
She lets the sacks fall into her hand and and holds them out to me. "Want to try?"
"No. No," I say in an effort to be clever. "I know my limits. No point advertising them. Hah! Hah!"
She shrugs. A paralyzing wave of neurotic doubt passes through me.
She resumes juggling, performs a few fancy stunts and stuffs the sacks back in her pack. She turns to him and says, "Shouldn't you call before we leave?"
"Good idea," he says and takes out his cell.
"I don't think that works here," I say helpfully. "There's a pay phone at the store."
"Ah! I have a signal," he says and wanders off a bit. I hear him say, "Hi honey."
She gives me a defiant look as if to dare me to form a conclusion.
The line advances.
"I hear we could get some weather tomorrow," I say.
"Weather happens," she says.
We wait in an uncomfortable silence until he rejoins. We exchange a few more pleasantries, but it's clear they have no interest. Twenty minutes later, they exit the Wilderness Office flashing their JMT permit.
The late afternoon walk from the Wilderness center to the Backpackers Camp is a hot slog through slippery sand and gravel. I prowl the length of the camp hoping for a quiet site away from the RVs. It's like walking through a exhibition of outdoor gear: all the latest in inner and outerwear drying on tree limbs, artistic displays of the latest titanium cooksets and a full spectrum of shelters including tunnel tents, tarp tents and free standers. Tarp tents are most common. A couple demonstrates the struggles of hanging a tent hammock. A red-headed fellow with a corona of beard and hair secures his bivvy to a picnic table with a bear canister. Further down, an older guy luxuriates in an airy Zpacks Duplex tent while from reading from a smart phone. I stop to admire. His tent is twice the volume and half the weight of my UL-1. The guy looks up and I give a double thumbs up.
I do not see another solo.
 |
| Tuolumne Meadows Backpacker Camp |
The only unoccupied site is by the camp entrance. I plop my pack on the table, and stake my claim with the five-dollar deposit. There will be no doubt about this campsite.
I find a cozy pile of pine needles and then erect the UL-1, inflate the Neoair mattress and Exped pillow, spread out the SubZero +20 and dive in for a nap. It feels great. I'm in heaven. But the sun is blasting the tent and, in 15 minutes, I am in a dripping sweat. I slither out, snatch the pillow and stretch out on the picnic table in the dappled shade of a Jeffrey pine.
I wake fuzzy headed and thirsty. I need a bathroom. I need water for cooking. I collect my toothbrush and two-litter bottle. On the way to the bathroom, the guy in the next site quips, "Saw some good logs?"
The bathroom is down by the RVs and truck campers. The floor is wet; the room gloomy. A father is looking after two little boys. The oldest is maybe eight; the youngest maybe four. Dad shepherds the younger boy into a stall and patiently provides detailed instructions.
The older boy waits impatiently by the sink. He looks up at me and explains, "He's too little to know how."
"It's ok," I say. "One day you boys will be big."
"I'm already big," replies the boy.
I circle the building to fill my 2-liter bottle. The sign over the basin reads, "Do Not Wash Clothes." A tweener girl is there. She stands away basin with her arms wrapped around a jug. Her face is creased. She is concerned. I walk over an look in. There's a bloated, dead squirrel. It has started to smell.
"Is it safe?" she asks.
"What do you say we fill up at the next one?"
"I know where it is," she says.
I follow.
The afternoon is fading. I'm waiting for my fideo, powdered-tomato-paste, mushroom and sausage-bit spaghetti dinner to hydrate. It does not look appetizing.
A guy about my age walks up. "OK to share your campsite? I'm Doug."
"No problem Doug. Make yourself comfortable."
I am happy to share. Relieved actually. A solo with a whole campsite seems greedy. Doug wanders off to set up his gear. I figure he'll do his thing; I'll do mine.
I finish dinner. There is still light. I grab my book. He returns to the table with his cook set and package of Mountain House Mac and Cheese. "Want some?" he asks.
I decline, but with a sense of regret. His food looks a lot better than mine. Cheese is but one more item on the growing list that the aging process has taken. I pick up my book and read to take my mind off the macaroni.
"What are you reading."
"This? A novel."
"Mind if I look?"
I hand it across the table. He turns it over, reads the cover and hands it back. "I don't know this one."
"Light reading on the trail. 3.5 ounces. 4 is my limit."
"Oh... you're a lightweight then?" he says sarcastically.
"I watch every ounce. My wife says I'm compulsive."
"No doubt. I never disagree with a someone's spouse."
I put the book down. This fellow has my interest.
"Where are you hiking?" I ask.
"Up Cathedral Pass to Clouds Rest. I've been kicking around Yosemite Creek and Ten Lakes. I'm between gigs. Is there a better way to fill a day?"
We begin discussing our hiking and personal histories. "I've had a checkered career," he says. He was a ski bum, wilderness guide, journalist, and now a mediation instructor who tours the world ministering to acolytes.
"I'm no meditator," I say.
"I wasn't either," he replies. "It found me. Then I went to Nepal and became a Buddhist. Ever try?"
"I'm not religious."
"That's very Buddhist," he says with a smile that's a bit too earnest for my taste. I tell him that I have nothing against any religion or belief system. "I don't know if it is the self-righteousness or underlying authoritarian tone, but I could never believe in one. I'm happy to do without."
He nods knowingly as if we are of a single mind and I have just restated his very own thoughts on religion. "Would you be interested in reading a book?" he says. "My book actually. I wrote a biography of the first American yogi. You sound like him."
"No kidding?"
"No kidding." he responds.
"Am I about to be converted?"
"No, but I bet we would have an interesting discussion."
I am writing down the name of the book when a big-boned, thick-limbed woman with an animated, cheery demeanor approaches. She must be pushing six feet and be on the declining side of 50. She has coarse-blond hair which she ruffles apologetically.
"Hi. I'm Nancy. Mind if I pitch my tent over here?" She points to an exposed, gravely spot. "My tent doesn't take much space."
She doesn't need our consent, but of course we agree.
"Thanks," she says apologetically. "I go pitch my tent if that's OK."
We trade shrugs and pass the next hour in a lively, deeply-profound, utterly-useless conversation about personal and worldly woes. Our perspectives are so fundamentally different that each topic concludes at an agreeable impasse. Since solving the world's problems exhausts me. I suggest that we head over to hear nightly campfire talk. Doug agrees.
Just before we leave our female companion returns. She sets a sack lunch on the table. "My I join? Don't mean to intrude." She takes a seat and pulls out a tasty looking mega burrito. It looks delicious. "Been thinking about this all afternoon," she says and takes a substantial bite. "Mmmm. Want some?"
We both decline. My stomach growls audibly.
"Where are you from? I'm from Orange County. I love it here. We use to come with the kids until the divorce. They're married now. Now I come by myself. Hah!"
She takes another bite. She seems like a happy person. I'm skeptical. "Mmmm. Damn. This is delicious. Sure you don't want some? What do you do? I'm a teacher." She examines each of us in turn waiting for an answer.
"I'm retired," I say.
"I'm a teacher," says Doug. "A meditation teacher."
"How cool! I've always wanted to try meditation. I do some yoga. I hope I'm not bothering."
"No bother," I say. "But were just going to the ranger talk."
She apolgizes profusely. Doug an I excuse ourselves.
"What a kind person," he says with the sincerest appreciation.
"I know," I say. "One week that and I would jump off a bridge."
He gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder, "You definitely need meditation."
"Probably."
It's just another summer night and another Tuolumne Meadows Campfire. Many of the seats are occupied — mostly by moms, dads and fidgety kids from the RVs and van campers. They are a minority. The rest are back at the campsites watching satellite TV.
We find seats a few rows back and watch the ranger light the campfire. She is a slender woman in her early 30s. I doubt she is shoulder high in lug boots. Her double pocketed shirt is sharply pressed. Her badge is shiny. A ponytail swings from her campaign hat. A sun-bleached accomplice arranges demonstration gear on the front bench. She about the same age and has the build of a gymnast. Both women are robustly healthy and attractive. There's a affectionate camaraderie.
"Good evening everyone. I'm Ranger Jeanne," she says stoking the fire. "Tonight's talk is about big wall climbing. Who here has done some rock climbing?"
A few hands shoot up.
"Good! I hope the rest of you will find this interesting and maybe some of you will be inspired."
There's a skeptical titter from the crowd.
"Did you know that many of the important innovations in mountain climbing were developed right here in Yosemite by locals?" She tells us about the climbers going back to the days of John Muir. She recites their names and innovations with reverence. Hardin, Robbins, Pratt, Hechtel, Johnson, Skinner and Pianna. The names mean nothing to me. She tells of the competitive drive, spirit of adventure, and fun-loving disregard of caution that made them great.
She asks a woman in the front row to help demonstrate the use of ropes, harness, cams and pulley. "We have to haul all our gear and all our food and all our water up the wall. The first climb up El Cap took 11 days. I've done it in 5 days. I had to sleep in a hammock secured to the rock. No rolling over. And we cooked on a ledge not much wider than those bench seats. One time I was 2,000 feet up and the wind blew an onion skin from my hand. It floated, right in front of us, up and down, back and forth, like an angel for a full hour before the wind took it.
"Probably the scariest thing is the 'pendulum." She starts running back and forth in front of the campfire. "You have to run like this on a ledge to get enough momentum. Then you swing like Tarzan to get across to the next ledge. You have to do it just right."
A "wow" rises from the crowd.
"But that is not the most dangerous thing. You could get caught in a storm. You can slip and your fingers can get stiff. The big worry is falling ice. A falling icicle can be lethal. Anything falling is dangerous. You can never drop anything. But if you do, you don't need it."
After a few question from the audience like "how do you pee" and "how long are the ropes," the talk concludes.
It leaves me feeling weary, depressed, hopelessly inadequate and very concerned for Ranger Jeanne. I cannot fathom it. It seems crazy. Why would this amazing young woman assume these risks? What must her parent think? What must anyone who cares for her think?
The sun-bleached accomplice and three men gather around Ranger Jeanne in a circle of support. High fives all around. "Let's join them," says Doug. "I used to climb."
"No surprise," I mutter but he doesn't hear.
I follow him down and find a spot a behind Doug. In short order, he captures the attention of the sun-bleached accomplice. He tells of his time climbing in the Himalayas, and his experiences in a Tibetan Monastery. He promises to teach a meditation class.
I decide to return to camp and step inconspicuously away from the group. For same reason, Ranger Jeanne turns to me and asks, "Did you like the talk? Was it interesting?"
I am blunt. "It made me uncomfortable."
She is taken back, but no put off. "Really? Why do you say that?"
"Because it seems so reckless. Because I could never to do that. Because you might die. Because I imagine someone I love doing it."
"I think about that stuff all the time," she says.
"Aren't you afraid?"
"Of course I'm afraid. That why I do it."
"But why?"
"Because I'm more afraid not to." Then she thanks me and rejoins her friends.
I start back to camp. It's very dark. I take a wrong turn, and end up on the wrong side of camp. The whole time I can stop thinking "what kind of person is like that and why am I here?"
I strike camp. While I'm forcing my NeoAir into its compression sack, three families with kids swarm down the trail from McCabe junction. They line up at the edge of Return Creek and cross with a lot of commotion. It sounds like a birthday party. 
