A Journey to the top
by Susan Seiling - Photographs by Terrance L. Reimer

Every day in summer, hundreds of people rise early in the morning to conquer the valley’s most recognized landmark: Half Dome. There are two paths to the summit: The trail from Glacier Point stretches 10.5 miles to the top. The other, from Happy Isles, is just over 8 miles to the top, but involves more elevation gain. It’s an all-day adventure that tests your physical and mental limits. As your body becomes tired and worn, you realize how IN shape or OUT of shape you have become in your everyday life.

A few weeks ago, my co-worker, Terrance, mentioned he would be hiking Half Dome with some old friends from high school. My mind kept coming back to the idea of joining them. The last time I hiked the trail, I went with two girlfriends. The journey was long, full of girl talk, and was one of the most fun hikes of my life. Here was the chance to do it again with an entirely different set of people. And this time, I’d approach it differently. Instead of being fixated with getting to the top of the dome, I’d try to enjoy the hike itself.

I set my alarm clock early on a recent Saturday and began the long hike.

4AM
My alarm rings, piercing the pre-dawn blackness with an incessant buzz. I hit snooze, curl up with my cat, then realize that if I fall back asleep, I won’t be ready by 4:30—the designated time to head for Glacier Point with Terrance, Jerry, Scott and Eric. Like I mentioned, Terrance is my co-worker, and has been a friend since our days at Ohio University. Jerry is a 40-something guy from Texas with two grown kids; Scott is in his 30s and is a computer programmer; Eric, a month away from marriage, is hiking Half Dome on his 28th birthday. I’m the only woman in the party. I don’t want to start the day by making the boys wait.

4:30 AM
My backpack is packed with a gallon of water, trail snacks, sunscreen and a hat. I head to Terrance’s house, a mere 50 paces from my own front door. I arrive to find my hiking partners scrambling gear into their daypacks. They arrived in Oakhurst the night before, and they look as tired as I do. I do my best not to be too chipper—there is nothing worse than someone yapping your ear off, when it’s all you can do to stay awake.

4:50 AM
We head for Glacier Point, a 1.5 hour drive from Oakhurst. The last two times I’ve hiked Half Dome, I had the luxury of waking up at my home in Yosemite Valley. I didn’t have to worry about driving up to the trailhead. It was a shuttle bus ride away. This morning, I am squeezed between Jerry and Eric. I fill them in on the hike—how it’s all about pacing yourself. Taking your time. Slow and steady wins the race. We have all day to do the hike.

6:15 AM
We arrive at Glacier Point just as the sun climbs over the Sierra Crest. Shafts of light paint the mountains pale yellow, dramatically contrasting the deep blue morning shadows. From the vista, we can see the first part of the hike, which heads down to the top of Illilouette Fall, then over to the top of Nevada Fall. Half Dome looks like a vertical slab of granite from this angle. It looks impossible to climb.

8:20 AM
We’ve covered just over 5 miles, and rest at the top of Nevada Fall. During the first 2 miles we descended from Glacier Point to the top of Illilouette Fall. Then we headed up 700 vertical feet to the top of Nevada Fall. This section of trail is called the Panorama Trail. If you go from Glacier Point to Happy Isles, you hike over 3 waterfalls, and can see Upper and Lower Yosemite Falls in the distance. The views on this hike are unprecedented. We haven’t crossed paths with a single person all morning.

10:20 AM
We’ve passed Little Yosemite Valley and are on the switchbacks leading up to the saddle beneath Half Dome. I am the energizer bunny, but my battery is running low. Terrance and Scott have gone ahead, with their long legs covering more ground than our shorter ones. Eric, Jerry and I take turns leading our small pack up the mountain. Jerry feels pain in his hip, and fears that his back is going to forsake him. He stays behind, while Eric and I continue up the switchbacks. We’ve been hiking for four hours. The hardest part of the hike still lies ahead.

11:20 AM
We are on the rock switchbacks that lead to Half Dome’s cables. They are steep, precariously placed, and dusted with gravel debris that makes them slippery. I’m not particularly afraid of heights, but I do have an over-active imagination. One false move; one misplaced step, and I will be rolling to the bottom of the switchbacks, and probably taking a few people with me. Eric and I take it slowly, propelling ourselves up a few switchbacks, then resting for a moment. There is camaraderie amongst the hikers up here. Everyone looks like they are stretched to their physical limits. The expressions on each person’s face range from fear; to exhaustion; to determination. As we ascend the switchbacks, we climb above the treeline and take in the views. There is a perfectly blue sky, and the white crest of the Cathedral Range dot the eastern horizon. I can see down Tenaya Canyon and see cars making their way around Olmsted Point on Tioga Pass. To the southeast, I see the Clark Range. This is the view I’ve been craving since the beginning of the day.

11:40 AM
We reach the cables—a quarter mile stretch that leads up to the top of half dome. By holding onto the steel cables and walking up the rock (as steep as 45 degrees in some places), you make it to the top of the dome. Scott and Terrance have already rested for a half an hour, and are ready to head up.

Eric and I decide to take a little break before we assess the cable route, and whether or not we are going to climb it. I began the hike, not necessarily to reach the top of Half Dome, since I’ve done it two times before. I wanted this hike to be about enjoying the views along the way. I munch on a peanut butter and applesauce sandwich and watch Terrance ascend Half Dome. His long legs make the climb look effortless. He looks like an grasshopper climbing a long blade of grass.


I eat a few more snacks, then head down to the giant glove pile. Other Half Dome climbers have left their gloves here, to protect the hands of future climbers from the friction burn of the cables. I shuffle through the pile and find a decent glove for my right and left hands. I don’t worry about finding a matching pair.


A steady line of people head up the cables. Eric, put off by the number of people climbing the cables, decides not to climb to the top of Half Dome. I nod goodbye to him, then take a few steps up the steep rock, and come to a dead stop. I wait two minutes. I take a few more steps, then wait again.

I make it a third of the way to the top, before my imagination starts to go crazy. I imagine myself falling backwards, taking out the 50 people below me. I imagine my feet slipping on the slick granite; my hands releasing the cables; and falling to my certain death. There is too much waiting time. I either have to be able to go to the top at my own pace, or I need to turn around. The line isn’t moving. A board snaps above me, making a person slip. A pole pulls out of the rock, throwing another person off balance. I feel my feet slip. I panic. I turn around and head to the bottom.

There is a solid line of people from the top of the cables to the bottom. I’ve mastered the cables twice before, and they really aren’t hard. It’s more of a mental challenge than a physical challenge. There are too many people on the trail. Too many voices. Not enough wilderness. There are over 250 people between those on the cables, and those waiting just beneath the cables. Saturday in the middle of summer is a busy day, and a lousy one to conquer Half Dome on your own terms.

But here you’re asking—what is it like at the top. From my prior two hikes, I can tell you that it’s bigger than it looks—several football fields wide. You can work your way to the ledge that hangs out over the valley, and look straight down, 4000 feet to the valley floor. From the top, on a clear day, you can see the coastal range. You can also see the crest of the Sierra; the Clark Range; the Cathedral Range; all of Yosemite Valley; Horse Ridge—a sweeping 360-degree survey of the area.

Views from the top of Half Dome

1 PM
I am tired. I have descended to the base of the switchbacks beneath the cables. I need a rest. I stretch out at a vista overlooking clouds rest and the Tenaya Canyon. I sleep. Sweet sleep. Nothing is softer than a granite slope during a long hike. I hear voices on the trail, and they seem to be from another world. Sweet, sweet sleep.

1:30 PM
I wake up, take a swig of water and head down the trail.

3:30 PM
I am at the top of Nevada Fall. I’ve met up with Terrance and Scott. We are all exhausted. My knees are screaming at me. Time moves slowly. Thoughts run slowly through my brain and repeat themselves like a broken record:

I’m too young to have knees this sore.
Should I reapply sunscreen?
Why is going down taking this long?
Would it be better to hike the Muir trail or the Mist Trail down to Happy Isles?
Should I eat a burger or pizza at the bottom?
Why is going down taking this long?
Why do I sit at a computer all week?
Why don’t I work out a little more intensely, so this hike wouldn’t be such a big deal?
Why is going down taking this long?
Sweet Jesus, I am TIRED.

We arrive at the bottom around 5:20. It has taken 11 hours to walk the 21.5 miles from from Glacier Point, to the top of Half Dome, then down to Curry Village Pizza. Terrance and Scott are the only two in our party who actually made it to the top of the rock. But the rest of us are quite pleased with our performance for the day. We have the war wounds to prove our exertion: the thick line of dust from the trail lining our legs; the soreness of our calves; the euphoric feeling that comes from pushing your body beyond its limits.

As I look around Curry Village, I see a few others who I saw at the top of Half Dome. A guy walks by slowly, clutching a microbrew. His face is solidified into a euphoric smile. His legs move slowly. My smile comes slowly as I nod hello. Slow and steady wins the race… When it comes to hiking Half Dome, making it to the top is an accomplishment; but Curry Pizza serves as the true finishing line. It’s where the celebration begins.

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Experiencing Yosemite With a Photographer

by Susan Seiling

We’re at Olmsted Point: A vista containing Half Dome, Cloud’s Rest and the entire Tenaya Canyon. Yet people are taking snapshots of my husband.

He stands at attention behind his fully extended tripod. A fanny pack containing film holders peeks out beneath his dark cloth (the large drape he hangs over his head so he can see the view through the lens of his 4x5 box camera). My husband is 6’5". He wears swimming trunks when we go hiking in the high country. Beneath his dark cloth, he looks like a cross between a monk and a Santa Cruz surfer. Watching people react to him amuses me.

They stand. They stare. They whisper to their spouses. I hear the name "Ansel Adams." Many people feel free to react as they please—afterall, my husband is under his dark cloth. He can’t see them stare. People gather around him, trying to view the photograph he’s taking. Many try to duplicate the shot with their point-and-shoot cameras. Others are content to ignore the sunset; the scenic vista; the billowing thunderheads--opting to watch my husband at work.

Sometimes I take the roll of intercessor – answering questions and justifying his charade. Most times, I sit back and watch. I used to feel self-conscious for him. But there is no point in feeling self-conscious for someone other than yourself. It causes resentment. It blocks his creativity. Besides, my husband is happiest when he’s photographing.

Being married to a photographer has allowed me to experience Yosemite in very different ways. I’ve witnessed light and beauty I never would have waited for, left to my own devices.

I’ve stationed myself on the top of Sentinel Dome countless times to watch the clouds turn fuchsia and violet.

I’ve witnessed the dramatic difference in how an alpine meadow looks during different points of the day. Morning: Frost-laden and breathing clouds of mist across itself. Afternoon: Stark and contrasty. The green grasses look flat, and the brown grasses blend in with the dirt. Evening: The meadows breathe a sigh of relief I can feel around my calves as I walk. The harsh sun grows soft, then reverts to shadows. The grasses grow distinguishable. Precise. Cool in temperature.

I’ve shivered in the late fall evenings, trying my best to be patient—scheming where we will eat for dinner and where I’ll be able to sneak in to brush my teeth and remove my contacts before dinner. And somewhere in these thoughts, I’ll realize the Aspen leaves are backlit, and the mountains have shifted from grey to orange. I’m surrounded by such beauty, my petty human planning seems to miss the point altogether. I am witnessing Creation itself.

Many times, when my husband photographs, I write. We have countless scenes recorded visually and literally. His photographs record the beauty; the light; the ethereal qualities that make these mountain seem like a far-away utopia. My writing contains the things you cannot witness in a photograph: The annoyance of a sharp buzzing in my ear; the smell of high country pines, abandoning their pollen like a springtime perfume; The bone-chilling cold of the High Sierra in October, when the sun has set and the winds rise.

There was a time when I resented photography. When I saw it as an eternal money pit that not only left us broke, but also left me without a husband at key romantic opportunities: sunsets; early mornings; dinner actually served at dinnertime. There are still times when I feel vexed by my husband’s job. But more often, I look at all it has given me.

Right now, we’ve been at Olmsted Point for over half an hour. I’ve watched the shadows grow longer behind the glacial erratics. I’ve watched the smooth slope of Cloud’s Rest turn from a stark white to a more shimmery yellow-grey. I’ve watched the tourist come and go—some verbal in their awe of the scenery; some so wrapped up in life, they may as well be looking at an aerial view of Fresno. The air is cooler. The sun is now resting on my ear, instead of my shoulders. My husband has lugged his tripod five separate places. He sets it up again, right behind me. A new set of tourists stare…and I continue to write…It’s a routine I’ve come to treasure.