Yosemite Diary 2000   Changes in Altitudes Summer 2000, by Sanders LaMont It was meant to be a birthday gift to ourselves: Spend a week or more in Yosemite's high country, celebrating individual milestones. Four of us turn 50 this year, and I turn 60 and am celebrating the 20th anniversary of my first visit to the Yosemite high country. This was not a geriatric rite of passage: One of the hikers is a triathelete, and everyone is experienced and in good physical condition. The original plan was to hike from Tuolumne Meadows to Devil's Postpile on the John Muir Trail. Part of our group would leave at the end of the first week, and others would take 21 days to go all the way to Mount Whitney. Fate, altitude sickness, friendship, hungry bears and common sense have a way of changing the best made plans, but since no time spent in the mountains is wasted, we all carried something home. Day One, July 29, 2000 We arrive at the cool altitude of Tuolumne Meadows Store and Grill just before noon, in time to greet old friends who waited to say hello, and duck into the grill for lunch. The afternoon involves a quick check of equipment, pick up wilderness passes, secure and park the van and hike the short distance to the backpacker's camp in the trees above the big campground. We pay our fees, secure the food, and hear a vague warning from the volunteer at the wilderness office that Kevlar "bear proof" sacks used by two of our group had not always proved effective. We walk to dinner at the lodge with five friends -- most from Los Angeles -- who were hiking to the High Sierra camps in the morning with their little lightweight packs. Dinner great. Company fine. Service excellent. And the dining room welcoming and funky. Before dark a large honey-colored bear wanders into the campsite, checks our clean camp and leaves when we yell. Other wilderness entertainment is provided by three young male backpackers trying to roll their own smokes, but they don't know how. Day Two, July 30, 2000 After coffee and oatmeal, dumping garbage and saying good-bye to flush toilets, we are on the John Muir Trail, heading south, by 8 a.m. Is there any more beautiful place than the Lyell Canyon in summer? Within minutes crowds disappear and we are left with the river, the flowering meadows and the mountains. Within minutes we see deer grazing, unmoved by our presence. We all feel good, and morning hiking is easy even though the packs are heavier and the weather warmer than usual. Each hiker is experienced, but individually so: The leader, we call her "She Who Must Be Obeyed," spent the last year getting into the best physical shape of her life. For months she walked, hiked, dieted and worked out rigorously three days a week with a professional trainer. She lived in Alaska before coming back to California five years ago. Hiking the entire John Muir Trail is her dream. She is experienced and a meticulous planner, plus she's met grizzly bears and is a great chef. Her spouse, sometimes called "Mule One" because of the big pack, also went through physical refurbishment this year. Alaska born, educated at John Hopkins and in England, he is a former football lineman vegetarian non-drinker who quotes Shakespeare, sings Irish ballads and quotes Van Morrison lyrics - whatever is needed. Our intellectual leader and calming influence. His best friend from childhood, could be known as "Gadget Man," also grew up in Alaska and has been fisherman, cop, lawyer and now owns and manages a Web site from Seattle. He carries a Global Positioning System, backup tools in case something breaks, a flask for medicinal purposes, extra food and the guaranteed high-tech bear-proof Kevlar food sacks among his 60 pounds of gear. He is tall, strong, enthusiastic, entertaining company, and lopes up the trail. His wife is a nurse-turned-web-businesswoman who has the look of a caregiver but sharp eyes and a stubborn streak, perhaps a bit of Irish held in check. The quietest but the quickest to smile, she carries our really big medical kit. Her friendship warms the circle. Me, the Geezer. The other four hikers insist "Grizzled Veteran" sounds better. My idea of training for this my umpteenth backpacking trip was to walk to the neighborhood park, sleep well, eat more cookies, and spend endless hours trying to trim my pack weight.. I ditch my ultra-light tent in favor of a holey blue tarp, carry iodine pills instead of a water pump, and become a happy man. I truly believe trail mix is gourmet food. Despite the fact the lightest pack weighs 40 pounds we make good time walking up the gentle valley of the Lyell Fork Canyon for the first nine miles or so. (The GPS could tell us, but I don't want that much detail in my life.) The canyon is spectacular at this time of year. As it broadens out and the trail wanders the western side, the views get better and better, the wildflowers more frequent. Deer look at us and wonder if they should move away, or not. By mid-afternoon, just as we begin to tire, the trail pitches upward and starts to climb toward Donahue Pass. A quick easy pace and snappy banter is replaced by less conversation and a slower pace. We spread out along the climbing trail. She Who Must Be Obeyed and Mule One lead up the rail steadily and quickly. I slow to my middling climbing pace, puffing, and the couple from Seattle falls back when we hit the switchbacks on the first avalanche slope. It is warmer than normal, and the rare spots of shade offer welcome respite. By the time three of us are at the top of the initial switchbacks, it is clear something is wrong. The leader sends me ahead to find a camp site for the night at the lake further up the pass, while she checks on our friends. Mule One backtracks to help, and runs into a mother struggling as she leads her two small children. He ends up carrying her massive pack uphill to a safe place. At this point, we have passed maybe a half-dozen hikers during the day, and we see others begin to drop off the trail to find spots for the night. We've come 10 or so miles from the start. I find a flat spot to camp, and sit down to wait until the leader shows up and we go part of the way back down the mountain to spend the night where our friends are waiting, exhausted. Our nurse/businesswoman friend has what appears to be altitude sickness, and badly needs rest. We all do. Day Three, July 31, 2000 Breakfast is quick and interesting. My pancake and egg mixture burns into an edible cake-like substance. My pan is a mess. Bread baked in a bag turns out to be a tad on the rare side. We eat everything we cook. Bears found, and destroyed, the two "bear proof" Kevlar bags during the night. We never heard a thing. The steel locking cables were snapped and the seams ripped open. Forty percent of our food is gone. (The three official bear canisters are untouched.) We have enough to get to a resupply point, I'm happy to trade for a can of Vienna sausages, and we pack up and head up to the mountain pass. We get a very slow start and don't leave camp till well after 8 a.m. We prefer to cross the passes before afternoon thundershowers start. Despite fresh food and rest, we immediately spread out on the trail again. Our friend moves very slowly, every step difficult. We devise a plan to shuttle her pack to help, but by the time we reach the lake, still short of the pass, it has taken an hour or more to go less than one mile. It is a spectacular spot surrounded by peaks on three sides, but only slightly more than halfway up the trail to Donahue Pass. An hour or more later, at the top of the next switchbacks along the cascade which spills into the lake, three of us wait for our two Seattle friends. When they finally arrive it is after noon and they have made a difficult decision. She has to turn back down the mountain. She is so exhausted that she took a wrong turn off a switchback. We are at 10,000 feet, and the altitude is a problem which will not go away for her. It is becoming dangerous. She makes the hard decision. They will turn back, retrieve the van at Tuolumne Meadows and try to meet us near the Devil's Postpile in two days. We split up the remaining food. Hug. Cry, and leave in opposite directions. Months of planning the trip of a lifetime seem to have collapsed within two days. The three of us continuing upward don't talk as we climb the final steep stretch of trail up to the top of the pass. The leader and her husband push ahead at a faster pace, and I find myself hiking with a Canadian boy named John who carries a barrel. He's about 15 years old, and has no pack, but a large plastic barrel about four feet tall and two across hefted by shoulder and head straps and rolling back and forth uncomfortably against his back. It is, he explains, something that is common in Canada to keep bears out of food. Even a grizzly can't get purchase on the sloping plastic sides. He looks miserable, and is not very happy with his Dutch hiking companions who are nowhere to be seen and who put much of their supplies into his barrel for safekeeping. They wear lightweight high-tech backpacks. He has a 65 pound barrel, a sore back and a sense of humor. He chats about the problems with Serbian "gangsters" in his small-town high school, and how he will be in good shape for the rugby season. After 1 p.m. we reach the top of the pass, and the southern boundary of Yosemite National Park. The view from the pass has collected a small crowd of people taking a prolonged break. A dozen or more people litter the rocks with their bodies. A small group of men heading north relax in folding chairs having drinks. A group of women, who look like marathon runners, arrive from Tuolumne meadows flying southward. "You are all Amazons!" says our leader, shaking her head. The Canadian boy with a barrel staggers up to his hiking companion who is resting by a patch of snow hiding a section of the trail. He asks if he can make Reds Meadow by nightfall. (It is two days away, and the answer is no.) We take time to enjoy a look around. To the north The Lyell Canton spreads out like a postcard of the high valleys of Switzerland, wrapping around the river to Tuolumne Meadows in the far distance. The red mound of Mount Dana shows on the horizon. To the south, steep peaks reflect the rugged geology of the eastern side of the Sierra. The terrain is changing every hour. Not far to the east an afternoon thunderstorm builds along the ridges, so we make the stop brief and hurry down the trail into the rocky slopes that dominate the top of the pass. We watch as the storms build in the north and push clouds against the nearby ridges. Finally, after an hour or two we stop to take a look at the spectacular surroundings and rest. Irritated marmots watch from granite outcrops. We decide that this is probably the best place to be for the night. We want to avoid lightning strikes, need the cover the area provides, and might as well camp in a beautiful spot. The green tarns around the creeks are carpeted with mossy grass and flowers which send ribbons of color scattering in all directions. Mule One, with the soul of a poet, observes that the vistas are overwhelming and the tableau divine. If you saw a painting with this much beauty, you would reject it as fantasy. Before the light fades we each take a dip in the creek, emerging cleaner and ready for a hot meal. We eat while watching lightning bolts play along the ridge to the north. Thunder is our music. It is distant enough to be safe, but close enough to be thrilling and a little uncomfortable. We debate the differences between Belding ground squirrels and chipmunks, and decide we don't care. We crawl into sleeping bags smelling the possibility of rain. Just as we fall asleep the tapping of big drops forces me to lower the flaps of my tarp, squeeze further under cover and wonder if three people can fit into a two-person tent. Day Four, August 1, 2000 We're up, fed and on the trail around 7. We head south for the lake region above Devils Postpile National Monument. We plan a long day to catch up miles lost with the delays getting started the first two days on the trail. The trail down the mountain pass begins through the same beauty we traversed late yesterday: bubbling creeks, carpets of flowers and mossy greenery, and rugged peaks on three sides. Once in a while we glimpse mountains to the east deep into Nevada. The trail descends steadily and gradually, curving down among bigger and bigger trees as we lose altitude. We almost miss one poorly-marked trail junction at a creek crossing, and shortly after that face the classic decision of Sierra creek crossings: do we wade across through the water and rocks, wetting boots or bruising tender feet, or do a balance-beam act across the fallen log which offers a dry but wobbly crossing. We opt for dry feet and the log, a mistake. The lead hiker, Mule One, crosses quickly and his wife our leader starts after him. After her first step, she loses her balance and begins to topple to the side, her heavy pack twisting her torso backwards as she goes down. I am right behind her and no help. I can't catch her or break her fall as she tumbles off into a pile of rocks in the edge of the creek right at my feet. I wonder if I can remember proper first aid for a compound fracture. A few choice words and a quick inspection reveal she is scratched and bruised - we are all a bit rattled - but nothing appears broken. We were lucky . A large pointed rock hit her directly in the large thigh, it hurts but did not break skin or bone, so we pack on cold compresses to keep the swelling down. After a brief rest, we wade the creek, put our boots back on, and start hiking toward the next pass. We are not comfortable. The sun is higher, the heat is building, and we climb out of the trees into less shade. My feet hurt. We drink a lot of water. The next pass is not as high, steep or spectacular as Donahue, and we feel relief as we cross the top and see Thousand Island Lake spread out below. We find one unpleasant surprise when we stop for lunch along the trail looking down on the lake. We are tired and we hurt. The descent has been hard on our feet. Our packs, while tolerable, are beginning to wear on shoulders and hips. We didn't expect this. Later, as we approach the edge of the lake, we run into more people, some of them who come in for the day by horseback to fish. The trail is littered with animal droppings, and flies are a nuisance. Camping is banned near the lake outlet to allow the land to recover from the abuse of years and thousands of feet. We refill water bottles and decide to climb across one more ridge on the John Muir Trail before taking a side trail to back civilization. We will drop into Garnet Lake where we will look for a place to spend the night near the creek. The short steep hike across the ridge from Thousand Island Lake to Garnet provides completely different views than earlier segments of the hike. Metamorphic rocks dominate, and granite is missing from most of this stretch of trail. Slopes are steep and pocketed with pothole lakes and patches of snow on the north-facing slopes. We pop over the ridge and descend toward Garnet Lake, back among granite surfaces. Resting on the trail above the lake we can see fishermen scattered along the edges, and signs saying "do not camp here." Too much traffic over the years. We follow the Muir Trail down to the lake's outlet where the water tumbles steeply down the mountain in a creek which becomes the headwaters of the San Joaquin River. The topo map shows the side trail dropping off the Muir Trail at the lake, following the river cascade to a crossing point, and then ending up east of the river at Agnew Meadow. We are puzzled when we cross the creek spilling out of the lake. We see no signs of a trail. Then a man with a backpack comes climbing up a granite face from among a tumble of boulders. That is the trail, he assures us. Sliding with a pack on doesn't work well. Off come the packs, and we climb down one at a time, passing gear along by hand until it is safe to put packs back on The route becomes more trail-like in a short distance, dropping steeply through the shade of the trees thick alongside the spilling creek. Once we clear the no-camp zone we begin to look for a place to spend the night. There is no spot big enough for our sleeping bags until we are well down the mountain and approach another creek spot which doesn't look like a creek crossing. (We'll worry about that tomorrow). We camp upstream and off the creek, but near enough to get to water. Later we see other backpackers struggle to cross the water below us where two creeks come together. They ford the creeks, which are swift, and set up about 100 yards away. The only sound is the roar of the converging creeks as they tumble down the boulders. After considerable wandering around we discover the map is a decade out of date and the crossing point is not where it appears in print or on the ground. We'll ford the creeks in the morning, and go cross country if we have to. For dinner we share the leader's great vegetarian chili, clean up, secure the food canisters, take a walk and climb into the sleeping bags long before dark. Just at dusk, dozing under my lean-too in the trees, I am startled fully awake by a very large honey-brown bear who ambles within ten feet of my bed. I yell, scare bear, and wake up companions who join the chorus. The bear behaves properly, and leaves. My friends assemble a cache of rocks. I decide sleep is more important than moving around to check on bears. Day Five, Aug. 2, 2000 The decision was made the night before. She Who Must Be Obeyed, the leader of this trip, says we will not to go beyond Devil's Postpile this trip. Today will be our last day. Months of planning and thinking about hiking the trail from Yosemite to Mount Whitney did not consider the possibility of best friends getting sick and close calls on creek crossings. Plus, the single other long-distance hiker has an injured back in Laguna Beach. It's just too iffy. We eat quickly. The visiting bear did no damage, apparently just passing through. We leave camp wearing very dirty socks (in contrast to slightly) to ford the two creeks which now become the San Joaquin River flowing east so it can then flow south and make the turn through the mountains before swinging back to the north. After the crossing, we dry off, change footgear and head down the mountain for Agnew Meadow trailhead. We are supposed to meet our friends at noon, but dream of flush toilets and hot showers give us speed. We hike fast and steady, taking few breaks. We probably smell like mules, but no one can tell and no one cares. The terrain changes to classic eastern Sierra, the smell of sagebrush in the air for the first time, and we begin to see day-hikers by 9 a.m. People in clean clothes pass by, walking their dogs. Horse droppings and flies are everywhere, but the scenery along the river canyon wall is green and welcoming as we head for the meadow to the south. We pause briefly for water, and then again to let a pack train go by at a narrow spot in the trail. I'm caught briefly between a large barking golden Labrador and a nervous horse carrying a tourist. Dog, horse and hikers survive each other, and move on. Shortly after 10 a.m., hot and dusty, we arrive at the trailhead. We are wondering what to do for the next two hours when the two Seattle friends we last saw near the top of Donahue Pass drive up in the van to provide cold root beers and an air-conditioned ride back to our reserved rooms and showers in Mammoth. Epilogue The post mortem of our shortened hike was conducted appropriately over lunch in a Mammoth Springs outdoor cafe, sitting where we could smell the trees and where the tourists (our rooms with showers were not ready) could not smell us. We had a good time, learned a few things, ended the trip in good shape, and made mostly good decisions: Our friends who were forced to turn back topping Donahue Pass were right to do so. She quickly recovered from altitude sickness, and she and her husband hiked strongly all the way back to the car at Tuolumne Meadows without any more problems. They felt great, were able to later enjoy a week of vacation from Bodie to camps along the coast before returning to Seattle. She did the right thing for everyone. It would not have been safe or fun for two hikers, one with a bad back and the other with a bruised thigh, to attempt to continue another 100 miles on the trail. The trails and the mountains will still be there when they are ready. The new plan is to do it in segments, and that will also be challenging and fun. Being with your friends - even in a town like Mammoth- is better than being without friends in the wilderness, and worrying about them. Hot showers are good. We found them. We liked them. And even after you leave the mountains and return to your desks in the city, the smell and the feel and the vision of the mountain trail are with you.   A Journey Down Yosemite Creek July 2000, by Susan Seiling There were a few boulders, carefully positioned with tips poking out of the water, offering footholds. I may be a burly girl when it comes to wearing a heavy backpack for several hours, but when it comes to crossing streams, I'm a plain old wimp. If we had parked our car on HWY 120, I may have turned around, telling myself that it was way too dangerous to cross the stream--the hike will have to wait for another day. But the car was parked in Yosemite Valley. I had no choice: cross the stream, or hitchhike down to Yosemite Valley. My mind raced with all kinds of irrational thoughts as my upper thighs quivered, trying to balance on the rocks. I pictured myself becoming caught up in the current, catapulting my body over Yosemite Falls (even though the falls were a full 6 miles away). After strategizing for a good five minutes, I ultimately realized that the worst thing that could happen to me is I would get a bit wet. Yes, it would be annoying to hike for 10+ miles with wet socks, but I wasn't going to die. With the help of my husband/hiking coach, I regained control of my legs, and was able to cross the stream and continue the journey. We were hiking along Yosemite Creek, which is the watershed that becomes Yosemite Falls. I wanted to follow its 10+-mile course from Hwy 120 into Yosemite Valley. We figured we could do the hike in a day; it's all downhill, and it's only about 10 miles. Heck, we usually hike that far with full-to-the-brim backpacks. We wanted to hike one-way, and being from a one-car family, carpooling wasn't an option. Instead, we took the hiker's bus, which leaves from Yosemite Lodge each morning. We'd made reservations the day before, so we were ensured a seat in the cushy bus, which seemed far too nice for toting a bunch of stinky hikers. The bus travels along Tioga Pass all the way to the park entrance, and it deposits hikers anywhere there is a turnout large enough to accommodate the entire bus. We had the bus drop us off at the Yosemite Creek trail. After a bit of navigating, we located the trail along the road, about 50 yards to the west of the parking lot. It was chilly; cold enough to debate whether I should wear my polartec jacket, or surrender it to the bottomless pit of my backpack. I opted to surrender it, knowing that I would be hot in less than 5 minutes of hiking. The hike presented the full gamut of Yosemite grandeur. We started out in high sierra forest: sugarpine and jeffrey pine. Cedars and aspens. The stream bubbled loudly to our left, until we came to a stream crossing--or rather, Yosemite Creek crossing (which I discussed earlier). The trail winds along the banks of the creek, with rock outcroppings piling on the opposite side of the creek. It leads into Yosemite Creek Campground, which looks like a wonderfully remote place to pitch a tent. The first few sites were marked with park service wooden stakes with the site number on it. If it weren't for the stakes, I wouldn't have guessed it was the campground. It just felt like part of the trail. Coming to Yosemite Creek Campground made me realize that, had we driven to Tioga Pass, we could've parked in the campground, missing the entire hairy stream crossing. Beyond the campground, the trail remained largely forested, with broken shade along most of it. Lupine, shooting stars and Indian Paintbrush were scattered across the forest floor, mingling with the thick long grass growing alongside the creek. As I was hiking, it occurred to me that hiking along Yosemite Creek felt like the Merced River (in Yosemite Valley): huge boulders shaped the current; the clear, green water looked more shallow than reality; the cool air chilled my shoulders. All that was missing was the noise, the people, and the belching of the shuttle buses (which I didn't really miss!). We crossed paths with maybe 12 other people during the first 6 miles of the hike, and we all seemed to be enjoying the voice of the creek, and the silence of ourselves. As we worked our way towards Yosemite Falls, the rocky creekbed gave way to sheer sheets of granite. The river twisted and turned its way along the granite sheets, digging deep holes and pockets, where trout circled in abundance. At one point, the creek formed a trout shape in the canyon, and the ripples of the current glimmered in the sun like the scales of a fish. Every turn in this granite-laden area presented a different set of colors, from the standard greys and whites, to rusty reds, greens and golden browns. Earth tones, reflecting in the sunlight. The air felt cool and damp from the wind generated by the running water. Looking up from the water, we worked our way through a series of canyons and valleys. Peaks I never knew existed behind Yosemite Falls showed their faces, and beckoned me to climb them on some future date. Yosemite has a way of outdoing itself. Just when you think you've seen the ultimately most beautiful thing, it will present a perfect wildflower, or a butterfly, or a pregnant doe--or Yosemite Valley. The deep blue shadow of the valley is what I saw first, as we neared the end of the creek. It was the first time I noticed the shadow it held, just by being so cavernous. We pulled ourselves up to the viewpoint at the top of the falls and took in the scenery: Half Dome and Clouds Rest; Sentinel Dome, North Dome; Taft Point; the Red Peaks; The Clark Range. After hiking all day, and enjoying the small rewards of hiking along a high Sierra stream, the view seemed truly enormous. Nothing makes you appreciate a sweeping landscape more than pacing it out with your own legs and feet; it puts it all into perspective: the smallness of me in the greatness of creation. I've hiked the Yosemite Falls trail from the Valley probably a dozen times. I wasn't particularly looking forward to this part of the hike, since I'd "seen it all before." But the good thing about hiking DOWN Yosemite Falls without the ardor of hiking up the trail is that you truly notice the views. There are some of the most inspiring views of Upper Yosemite Falls with Half Dome on the trail to Upper Yosemite Falls. In the cavern between the two falls, we saw a double rainbow, and the colors projected themselves on the rock, so it looked like the walls were made of hard candy. I made it to Yosemite Valley with sore knees, tired calves and a calm disposition. On a day when I could've been doing something requisite: cleaning my house; paying bills; building a website for a client; I gave myself Yosemite Creek. And now, I give it to you. May 2000 by Susan Seiling It's mid-day, with horrible light for photographing. The sun bears down on the landscape, with no clouds to temper the glare. The light renders everything excessively real. There are no mysterious clouds, dangling down on the cliffs. The rocks glow their true colors: greys, ivorys, yellows and silvers, unaltered by idealistic sunset light. But it's a glorious day to write about. This is the true, raw Yosemite Valley. Yosemite without makeup and the accessory of weather. Many days, I prefer the natural look. In this harsh springtime light, the deciduous trees look fresh and delicate. The apple tree blossoms, the dogwood blossoms and the translucent green of the oak leaves make patterns like lace, suspended in the air. Every step presents the same leaves in a different pattern: A kaleidoscope of spring. The grasses of the meadow shift from green to silver in the sunlight. The wind blows it into waves of silver that ripple across the meadow. I can follow the waves with my eyes, watching the wind catch from grass to grass--knoll to knoll--to tree to tree as the wind reaches the forest. Butterflies and bumblebees fumble amongst the soggy trail, always one fluttering step ahead of my feet. I settle by the Merced River as it gushes and bubbles like water, just prior to boiling (though it is only 55 degrees Fahrenheit). It takes on new shape constantly as it convulses down a wide channel, submerging the sandbars. One hundred shades of blue and green play tag in the bright sunlit water and where they meet, they ripple into whitecaps. The Merced showcases rocks in pristine green light like the best green glass. The ripples mixed with sunlight cast shadows on the rocky riverbed, creating a show as entrancing and calming as a bonfire on a cold autumn night. No, it's not the right time to photograph. But on this bountiful spring day, Yosemite presents another lesson in clarity. Early March 2000 by Susan Seiling Today is a blustery day. Sitting in church, I watched the pine needles spray through the air with each gust of wind. Walking home, I felt the wind push itself through my polartec jacket. Chilled to the bone. Sunday. No work to be done, and no obligations to go into the office. A dreary Sunday. The kind of day that chases me inside, and makes me think and read and maybe even bake. But first, I'll write this Yosemite journal entry--or rather, a collection of entries. Enjoying the turn-outs We were headed for Wawona when the sunlight cast a patch of moss electric green. My husband squealed into a turnout so he could capture the light on film. We ended up spending over an hour, exploring the area. The forest floor felt cushy and un-compacted beneath my stiff hiking boots. It was so dense with pine needles, they started pinning themselves to my socks. A few tree trunks stood around us, burned into silhouettes that looked like statues: remnants of a forest fire. The turn-out was pure, raw Yosemite; The Yosemite many people claim is gone. One of the first questions people ask me, when I tell them I live near Yosemite is, "How are the crowds?" The truth is that the crowds can be as thick as those on a San Francisco sidewalk, if you stick to the well traveled paths of the valley. But if you take a few moments to venture where there are no paths, you'll find the soft forest floor and bears who are still startled by humans, even on a busy summer day. New Year 2000 I spent New Year's Day 2000 hiking with several old friends to the top of Vernal Fall. The mist trail was closed, so we ended up taking the John Muir trail to the top of the falls, which is a longer hike, but also (I think) more rewarding. The trail led us gently up the mountain (especially compared to the series of steps on the Mist trail). As we climbed, we took in the views across the valley--Yosemite Falls, Glacier Point, the big tulus pile from the 1998 rock fall in Happy Isles. Within an hour-and-a-half, we came to a view point of Nevada Fall. Though the top of the fall is another mile of hiking, we could see the full length of the waterfall, arching its way down the Merced River Canyon, with ice etched along either side of it. After admiring Liberty Cap as well as the back of Half Dome, we took the trail down to the top of Vernal Fall. Half way down, we discovered a view of Vernal Fall that is almost aerial. We stood above the waterfall, several hundred feet above the Mist trail. As we looked down, we could see the expanse of the entire fall, the mist spiraling upwards and the green trees and plants, drinking in the mist. There were a surprising number of people coming down the John Muir trail, with full backpacks. In the middle of summer, backpackers are a very common site. But on January 1? Y2K chased them out of civilization and into the back country. Thankfully, Yosemite Valley had electric, hot showers and ample food and water after the date change--Y2K turned out to be a huge nonevent in Yosemite--unless, of course, you were outside, enjoying the waterfalls and other elements of beauty (these, of course, know no date). Taking the time to reflect So this comes back to my other journal topic--why I haven't written in so long. My husband and I have been plugging all of our energy into making our small business a success. So far, it's been going wonderfully. We have a growing list of clients, many who use their photographs to promote conservation of places like Yosemite. I spend the majority of my life working, then walk out my door to see the mountains of the Sierra Nevada, surrounding me. It's a blessing. But it makes me want to hike and play and explore the forest. I see the snowcapped peaks and want to drive up to them and snap on my cross country skies. I don't want to go into my office, where the blinds are constantly pulled shut, so we can see the monitors without the glare of light. When we're too busy working to answer the phones, my clients leave messages, asking if we're out skiing or enjoying the most recent snowfall. They speculate on what life must be like, living just outside Yosemite. They wonder if we're lured into the great playground, just 30 minutes from our office door. But this is where we draw the line between dreams and reality. Reality tells us that we need to be available to accept orders and ship our daily pile of FedEx packages. It also dictates that we need to take the time to enjoy the little areas of Wawona and the forest. So, after two years of making our lives about work, we're trying something different: we're making the workweek about working, and the weekend about playing. Now, when I look at the snow line, just 100 feet above the town, I tell myself that in a few days, I'll be able to enjoy it. After all, FedEx doesn't have Saturday delivery in Oakhurst. And if I'm constantly dreaming up the next phase of our business, I'll have no time for the inspiration that comes from the little things: reading or baking or enjoying the soft, glowing light of a blustery Sunday morning.