A Yosemite Diary, 1996   My Year of the Bear December 1996, by Kristina Rylands I have lived and worked in the Yosemite area for three years now. During this time, I have yet to see a bear. When it comes to bears, I've complained long and loud at never seeing one. My park service friends all trade stories, sometimes daily. One person went to put some trash in a large dumpster and when she opened it, there was a bear cub staring her in the face. A friend who lives in Foresta complained that a bear kept pawing at the cat door on her front porch. So it has become a point of shame; when they turn to me in the storytelling, I say in a voice softened by embarrassment, "I've...never actually...seen a bear." That is until now. This has been my year to see bears! Hiking along the Porcupine Creek trail on the way back from North Dome, a yearling was shuffling through the forest duff, turning over decayed bits of tree trunks in search of food. A group of us watched quietly for nearly a half an hour before the bear wandered back into the trees and was gone. Cutting through the Curry Village apple orchard/parking lot, we came upon two new cubs high in an apple tree. Their mother appeared as a wide, hairy mass curled up in a nest of branches, apparently sleeping away, unconcerned. As a new mother myself, I couldn't help feeling a maternal protection toward the cubs - they climbed dangerously close to the ends of their branches which bowed and bobbed under their weight. At any moment, it seemed, they would come tumbling and crashing down to the hard ground below just for the sake of one apple on the tail end of a branch. I expected them to lose their balance, to twirl and dangle fifteen feet off the ground. But I was surprised at how agile they were. They knew exactly what to do and scooted through that tree with great confidence, oblivious to the crowd gathering below. It seemed I was finding bears or signs of them everywhere I went: In the meadows outside of White Wolf I discovered claw markings on several lodgepole pines. This fall I saw a bumper crop of scat piles filled with traces of acorns - a good sign: this bear was eating what he or she should. (I can't tell you how many piles of scat I've seen with Frito bags or traces of someone's cereal box in them.) I also happened to witness the aftermath of a bear encounter with a backpacker's car. This always offers a study in animal behavior. What was the bear's strategy? What was he after? And why did that backpacker leave a banana peel on the front seat of his car? In this case, the bear smelled the peel in the car. Realizing there were even more food smells in the car, he moved on to the trunk which had two large dents above the lock; frustrated, the bear moved to the back seat. The back door and window were peeled nearly off the hinges revealing a shredded rear seat as the bear tried to get into the trunk. And was he successful! Spaghetti packages strewn everywhere. A can of sardines with a large hole punctured in the top. Cereal scattered like confetti. A mess. And despite warnings throughout the park - there was even a sign just a few feet away from that person's car - people continue to ignore the park service's warnings about proper food storage while in the park. I would have paid anything to have seen that backpacker's face! I recently heard about a book written by Douglas Peacock entitled The Mark of the Bear, describing his encounters with and studies of grizzlies. In a recent interview, he talked of his adventures and observations. Of the raw wildness that one experiences seeing the great bears in their pristine element. I now have a bear story or two of my own to tell. But when I think back on my frustrations at never seeing a black bear in Yosemite, I realize that Peacock describes what I longed for: To watch a wild creature. To see them working as a part of nature, unaware of and unaffected by humans and our trappings. October 1, 1996 by Kristina Rylands "...As the healing hands of Autumn cool me down." -from a song by the Indigo Girls Whoever said that California doesn't have four seasons has never been to Yosemite! It's approaching autumn and you can feel and see it. Crisp nights. Mild days. Skies that cloud up and threaten but don't deliver. Big-leaf maples yellowing around the edges. But for me, fall in Yosemite has more to do with water--or the lack of it. The other day I took a group of students to Mirror Lake. It was warm and I looked forward to dipping my toes in Tenaya Creek. We were primed for some relief after a dusty trek along the horse trail. As I watched Half Dome loom larger, I couldn't help thinking of the Ahwahneechee legend of Tisseyak's long trip to Yosemite Valley with her husband, Nangus. Her baby growing irritable, their tongues dry and swollen from walking miles without water. Then as if by miracle, a pool appears-glistening clear and clean. But while Nangus searches for a proper camp site, Tisseyak takes first one sip, then another, and finally drinks up the entire pond. Just as my fifth graders were about to ask "How much further?" we arrived at the lake. But like Nangus who was shocked and utterly deflated upon his return to the dried-up shore, we landed upon the waterless, mirrorless, Mirror Lake. I felt like Tisseyak struggling for an excuse for the water's whereabouts--uh, really. . . I was here just two weeks ago with another group and we splashed in the creek. People were diving off of those rocks, I swear. It was here. I mean it. Look, there's still some damp sand down there. . . I tried to turn this into a "teachable moment," explaining the processes of succession at work turning Mirror Lake into Mirror Meadow. But on an arid afternoon with hot feet and empty water bottles, the lesson was lost. Last year I had a similar experience with a group of disappointed tourists who came with rolls of film ready for Yosemite Falls. But that October, there was barely a pencil of water visible from the base of the lower fall. Again, my discussion about seasonal creeks and falls couldn't make up for their anticipated visions of gushing, rushing, spilling water. But that night it rained. And by the next morning--as if someone turned the faucet--the falls were again rushing. It was an amazing sight--to have seen it dry one day, then flowing the next! Every once in a while a visitor will ask me what's the best part about being in Yosemite nearly every day. Without question, for me it is being able to see, feel, and be present for the changing seasons. To be on the cusp of a season, then watch it overtaken. And remembering that moment all year long. The Living Rocks July 23, 1996, by Kristina Rylands "How lavish is Nature, building, pulling down, creating, destroying, chasing every material particle from form to form, ever changing, ever beautiful." --John Muir, August 1869 I got a call from my dad at about 10:00 p.m. The newscast reported a tremendous boulder had fallen in Yosemite Valley beneath Glacier Point, overtaking much of the Happy Isles area. Knowing that I hike in that area frequently, he was worried and relieved to hear I stayed home all day. I assured him that even when I am up there leading groups on natural history walks, I conduct "rockfall drills" before proceeding along the trail. My dad snorted something under his breath that sounded like "oh surrrre." Upon examining the photos in the paper the next morning, it was clear this wasn't just a rockfall, but a geologic event! It's all a part of nature's building up and tearing down. To most, the Valley's sheer walls of granite are static and unmoving. After all, it is the meadows, rivers, and lakes that are teeming with life. Right? Next time you are in the Valley, look closer. Get out a pair of binoculars and see the universe of life that exists clinging to the cliffs. It's everywhere. You'll see entire communities of lichen-black streaks, reddish blotches, crusty bright green patches. These lichens-a combination of an algae and fungus living in a symbiotic relationship-actually produce enzymes that decompose the granite, grinding the rock into sand. Go ahead and brush your finger over just about any lichen-encrusted boulder and see the granules flake away. Ponderosa pines shoot their roots through fractures in search of water, as if the cliff was just as fertile as any meadow. One of my favorite "cliff trees" grows on a wall at the old Church Bowl, now a picnic area across from the west end of Ahwahnee Meadow. Walk up to the wall there and you'll see a manzanita growing out of a terrace of moss and rock about 50 feet off of the ground. It's like a bansai garden. Cool and beautiful. Terraces such as these collect ground up granite, bits of pine needles or leaves becoming miniature compost piles. When birds or other cliff-loving creatures land there and drop a seed, a garden may emerge. And it's not just external forces tearing down Yosemite's granite. The rock walls themselves are under the strain of tremendous internal pressure, like that of a balloon, causing the rock to flake away or "exfoliate" in layers like an onion. Driving along the Tioga Road, this process becomes clear: granite along the roadside seems to have been carefully stacked to make room for the road. Often, water makes its way into the fissures in the rock-expanding and contracting with years of freeze and thaw. And then the rock falls. You know it--rolls of thunder on a clear day, followed by a cloud of dust, and a slight electrical smell. An amazing natural event. It is one we hope is witnessed from a safe distance away. One played out thousands of times on Yosemite's living landscape. At Last - To Tuolumne! June 25, 1996, by Kristina Rylands I live in the Sierra Foothills and it's hot. It's early summer, but days are in the 90s and 100s. The last of the spring grasses are turning straw-colored golden while showy magenta Farewell-to-Springs are about the only bloom left on the dusty hillsides. The creeks are dry. The shadeless Bull Pine moves quietly on whatever breeze happens to drift by. This is stay-indoors weather. It's time to head to Tuolumne. It is estimated that temperatures in the Sierra drop 3 degrees for every 1,000 feet of elevation. My driveway in Mariposa is roughly 2,200 feet and 95 degrees. So by the time I reach Pothole Dome about an hour and a half away, I'm assured a moderate 75 degrees or so. For most of the year, those of us who live in the Yosemite area are virtually cut off from Tuolumne. Winter's first snow closes Tioga Road leaving us to venture there on cross-country skis. But come Memorial Day, we're "east side" crazy, pacing back and forth in front of the ROAD CLOSED sign at Crane Flat. Waiting. Checking our watches. Surely the road must be plowed through by now. Ready to greet each sign-post along the road like Jimmy Stewart running through the streets of Bedford Falls in It's a Wonderful Life: "Hello Tamarack Flat! Hello "epicenter of the park" Mt. Hoffmann! Hello you rocky old Olmsted Point!" While the foothills and much of Yosemite's lower elevations are well entrenched in summer, Tuolumne is just awakening from the long winter. It's spring again. Much of the roadside is covered in snow. You can see where kids have piled out of the family mini-van to build snow creatures. Tenaya Lake is too chilly for even my big toe. The green is intoxicating. The cool, glorious. And the flowers! I love wildflowers. The last of the foothill varieties are soon about to wither back and die. One by one, we say good-bye until next year. But Tuolumne is just beginning to thaw and bloom! When I take hiking groups up into this region, I usually begin the day by setting a theme--in the sub-alpine ecosystem, life is short. Not only will you find many species of flora hugging the ground, but the growing season of most flowers is extremely brief. The ground thaws and dries out from May through July, leaving most species only about 4 months to bloom, pollinate and die. But what a show! I'm always on the lookout for my favorites: Snow Plants & Spotted Coralroots in the shady humus on the way to Harden Lake; Little Elephants Heads & Alpine Gentian along the Lyell Fork of the Tuolumne River; Lemmon's Paintbrush & Ranger Buttons on the trail up to Gaylor Lakes; Mariposa Lilies & Crimson Columbines throughout Tuolumne Meadows. I remember I first came to this area on a family vacation when I was 10 years old. My dad's brand new 1972 Lincoln chuffing up Tioga Pass from Lee Vining. I'll never forget it. We stopped at the Tioga Pass Resort, threw snowballs at each other in Dana Meadows, scrambled through boulder fields--erratics left behind by glaciers, ran circles around Lodgepole Pines. This was my introduction to the Sierra. It sounds incredibly sappy, but I knew then that Yosemite, and especially Tuolumne, would be my place of return. So as summer approaches with winter far behind, the season's first trip up Tioga Road--cool and verdant--is a holiday. I can leave the behind heat and dust and enjoy five more months of spring. A true home-coming!