A Yosemite Diary, 1997 Things To Do In Yosemite In the Rain November 1997, by Kristina Rylands Today it's raining in the park. Not just a sprinkle here and there, but it's been raining all day. We knew it was coming. Last week, the wind would unexpectedly pick up, heaving the golden black oak leaves into the meadows like pieces of hand-sized confetti. The mouth of Yosemite Falls has been yawning dry for weeks, with only a pencil of water trickling down. This certainly is no time to be indoors. The first rains in Yosemite should be welcomed and cheered. So I've provided a brief list of ideas for things you can do in the Valley on a beautiful rainy day: Find a spot along the slowing Merced river, preferably a place where the water completely covers the river-bottom (no gentle rapids). Sit here under your poncho or umbrella and listen to the "hissing" that the rain makes on the river's surface. Take a trip to the Indian Village of the Ahwahnee, located behind the Yosemite Museum building in Yosemite Village. There's a self-guiding trail that leads you through the village. Follow it until you spot one of several umachas or traditional Ahwahneechee dome-shaped houses made of incense cedar bark. Climb inside one of these and discover just how warm, comfortable, and dry you'll feel after just a few moments. Since you're in the area, head across the street to the Yosemite Cemetery, (one of my all-time favorite places to visit, rain or shine). My good friend, Martha Lee, has just finished co-authoring (along with Stan Johnston) a small book on the cemetery entitled, Guide to the Yosemite Cemetery. Pick up a copy of this at the Valley Visitor Center (it's only $3.50), and then spend a couple of hours reliving Yosemite history. Even without the book, several of the headstones give you glimpses into the lives beneath your feet: "EFFIE MAUD CRIPPIN DIED AUG 31ST, 1891, AGE 14 YRS 7 MOS 22 DAYS, SHE FALTERED BY THE WAYSIDE AND THE ANGELS TOOK HER HOME." Notice when folks died. Although we visit Yosemite today in relative comfort, the death dates serve as testimonials to the harshness of life in the Yosemite wilderness. Under the base of Washington Column, located at the Valley's east end facing Half Dome, you'll find an enormous field of boulders. Without needing to scramble off the trail, you'll find some great boulder caves. Crawl in, get comfortable, and eat your lunch out of the rain. It's surprisingly chilly, but a great way to keep dry for a spell. This is also a great place to spot mortar holes-depressions in the granite created by the Ahwahneechee people during the preparation of acorn flour. There's a terrific flat slab just outside of the cave area. Sit on it and watch the holes fill with water. Imagine what it must have been like when this area was home to Yosemite's first residents. Of course, watching the rain approach from the top of a dome (i.e. Sentinel Dome) or an exposed slab (Devil's Dance Floor) can be exciting, you have to keep in mind the unsafe possibility of electrical storms, plus the trip down the rock can be slippery, even with sturdy boots. These are just a few ideas. If you have some great spots to visit in the rain, feel free to drop me a line (rylands@yosemite.net).   Bears Everywhere! October 1997, by Kristina Rylands Last year around this time, I wrote about bears and my gross embarrassment at never having seen one. This fall, I don't know how you could have spent any time in the Valley without either coming across their tell-tale signs or stumbling upon a bear in your path! While preparing for a walk I was giving last month, I decided to check the trail conditions ahead of time, just in case last year's flood made this favorite stopping spot of mine impassable. It was mid-day and the apple orchard I traversed was in full harvest. Just then, I looked up to see a mama bear and her two cubs no more than ten yards ahead of me. I slowly backed up, keenly aware of my personal rule that if an animal is aware of your presence, you're too close. She and her family lumbered off through the bracken ferns and disappeared into a thick stand of trees. A couple of weeks ago, I brought a group of folks to this same spot. We had just finished reading a poem by Mary Oliver entitled "Happiness." In it, a woman comes upon a she-bear high in a tree, lapping up honey and languishing in the sticky stuff all the way up "the rugs of her arms." The writer never mentions the word "happiness" anywhere in the poem, but the images strikingly relate back to the title-nature and surprise and pure bliss. After reading the poem, we walked through my "favorite place," looking for a spot to sit for a moment. Pile after pile of bear scat littered the trail. There wasn't a square foot that hadn't been "used." No sooner did we decide to abandon the area, we saw her above our heads. A beautiful adult female black bear sat laced in the branches of an apple tree, happily munching away on fruit after fruit. Coming so soon on the heels of our poem, we stood watching in disbelief, then backed away quietly. But not all of my bear encounters this fall have been so pleasant. One evening while waiting for a shuttle bus at Curry Village, I saw a group of tourists in the parking lot surrounding an adolescent black bear, flashing pictures like some crazed paparazzi. The crowd grew and grew until it seemed as though the bear had to way to escape. Finally, a ranger arrived on the scene to disperse the gathering. The Curry Village area has been hit nightly by bears raiding parked cars. In fact, visitors to the area have taken to strolling the parking lots during the morning to survey the damage. On the way to my car one morning, I found five cars with traces of bear damage: a slightly bent-back trunk; a door peeled from its hinge with the back seat pulled up, exposing the trunk compartment; bear paw prints (and a pile of scat) on the hood of a car; leashes of rubber window stripping littering the ground. And despite the warnings by the Curry Village concession, people continue to leave food in their cars, ice chests on the back seat, empty soda cans on the dashboard. In the winter 94/95 issue of the Yosemite Guide, Yosemite wildlife biologist Steve Thompson wrote that "As humans, we all have a natural attraction to our fellow creatures. The eminent biologist Edward O. Wilson has named this affinity "biophilia" which in its Latin roots, roughly means 'love of living things.' " He goes on to explain that while this theory provides us with some explanation for our attraction to wild creatures, "it does not remove our responsibility to protect Yosemite's wildlife." Finally he says, "Visitors must realize that the highest quality wildlife experience is in being able to see an animal that is behaving naturally, unaffected by humans, as an integral part of its ecosystem." I can't help but picture Mary Oliver, my group, myself stumbling on precisely this vision of "happiness" in the wild this fall. Yosemite Is For Kids September 1997, by Kristina Rylands In August, I had the pleasure of leading a Yosemite Association Field Seminar entitled "Family Day Hikes in Yosemite Valley." I spent the weekend with a terrific group of parents, aunts, grandmas, and their kids all out for some camping fun and a little adventure. We had a great time hiking around the Valley, scrambling through boulders, splashing in the river, spelunking in a secret cave. But for me-the mother of a toddler and baby #2 due in February-the best time was spent watching children take in the beauty and excitement of nature. Watching kids take in Yosemite has particular appeal to me partly because I was introduced to the Sierra and Yosemite at age 10, and also because we often take for granted the excitement of things found apart from the park's grand waterfalls and granite walls. After lunch, this group of kids sat on boulders in Tenaya Creek at the mouth of Mirror Lake, watching and discovering the forces of water at work. One 11-year-old took great pains finding smaller rocks to create dams and diversions in the water. A 7-year-old found a water snake clinging to the underside of moss-encrusted boulder. Another kid in the group spent her time fashioning boats out of sticks and leaves, then sent them down the "rapids." While the parents and guardians relaxed and chatted on the shore, I sat with the children for over an hour, fascinated with their fascination. But this type fascination is not isolated to just one group. I've led children on walks through the park and the reactions are often the same: "Wow, check out the moss on this rock!" "Hey, what happened to this leaf? It looks like lace." "What kind of animal poop is this? Looks like it had apples for dinner!" "Check out that tree growing in the middle of that boulder!" No doubt, there's lots to do with your kids here in Yosemite. But don't overlook the fun that can be had apart from the day's itinerary. Skip stones. Walk barefoot along the shallows of the river. Watch leaves fall. Check out the star-like glimmer of climbers' flashlights on El Capitan at night. To a kid, Yosemite's sweeping panoramas sometimes come second to the little discoveries found, literally, underfoot. Challenge Yosemite July 1997, by Kristina Rylands Last February my mother underwent a heart transplant operation. (Thus, the four month lapse in my diary entries!) In my attempt to learn as much as possible about the surgery, I turned to the World Wide Web and conducted a general search on "heart transplants." There were over 500,000 entries! I began sifting through technical papers and news stories about heart recipients, and to my surprise, came across one particular web site pertaining to Yosemite AND a heart recipient. The site was written by Kelly Perkins, a thirty-five-year-old woman who received a transplant last year. In September of 1996, after fighting off bouts of severe rejection, she challenged herself with perhaps one of the most daunting day hikes Yosemite has to offer - an ascent of Half Dome. Kelly was the first recorded heart recipient to complete this endeavor, which was particularly amazing since she accomplished it within the first year after transplantation. In her web page story she reveals, "...After being infected with a rare virus that destroyed my original heart, nothing seemed impossible...I concluded that I do not have control over all of the events in my life, therefore it is important to live each day to its fullest." Once at the Half Dome cable route, she says, "There was no turning back for me. I loved the challenge and felt like God had already had many opportunities to take me but chose not to, so I felt comfortable in taking the risk." What is it about Yosemite that brings about this sense of passion for challenge? Rock climbers will tell you. Anyone who has hiked to the top of Yosemite Falls will tell you. And I imagine any pioneer who braved the dusty, rocky Old Big Oak Flat Road into Yosemite will tell you. There's something about Yosemite's beauty, its sculpted magnificence, a place that brings us closer to the nature within us all. There's a desire to be wed to a part of it. A desire to hold it in our muscle fibers and remember it in the sweat that pours down our face. It's an affirmation of our own life and "aliveness" in concert with nature and its dynamic processes. Challenge is an amazing thing. For people like Kelly and my mom - having come a heartbeat away from the edge of life and surviving - one would think that was enough. But while my mom will most likely never climb Half Dome, she looks forward to many more visits to Yosemite with her grandchildren. Maybe a walk to Mirror Lake or a picnic by the river. Just enjoying the beauty and magnificence of life, day after boring day. Now, that's the challenge. (To read more about Kelly Perkins' adventure, check out her web site at: http://www.andreas.com/crakel/halfdome.html Kristina Rylands is a Yosemite-area naturalist and the editor of the Yosemite Guide. She is a regular contributor to the Yosemite Diary. Yosemite's Four Seasons June 1997, by Kristina Rylands There's a joke among Californians. When out-of-towners bemoan the lack of four seasons in the Golden State, we say, on the contrary, California DOES have distinct seasons: flood, fire, earthquake, and drought. The same could be said for Yosemite, only our four seasons are flood, fire, rockslides, and tourists. (Note: please do not infer that I am equating tourist season with a natural disaster.) Like the rest of the country's seasons, Yosemite's four come with a great deal of regularity and are largely a part of the natural processes shaping the wonder of our area. By now, you must be aware of the great flood we experienced last January. During last fall's "fire" season, Yosemite's northern reaches witnessed the largest blaze since 1990, known as the "Ackerson Complex" blaze. And in July of 1996, the Happy Isles area made headlines with a rockslide that flattened hundreds of trees, damaged the well-known Nature Center, and blanketed nearby campgrounds in a layer of fine dust. Tourist season, although not nearly as dramatic an event as Yosemite's other "seasons," comes about gradually. We notice a few more cars on our normally traffic-less commute. The motels in my home town of Mariposa light up the neon "NO" before "Vacancy." And voices from around the world fill the Yosemite Village mall and shuttle buses. After the water-logged drama of this last winter and spring, it's somehow comforting to see visitors return to the park. Many of us who have contended with road convoys and constant construction find the familiarity of the tourist season as welcome as the wildflowers. After our season of uncertainty and stress, it is somehow satisfying to see visitors come to Yosemite to take in its grandeur, just as they have for decades before. This is where they come for vacation and respite from the pace of home-life. This is where nature shows us that beauty and peace can bloom after upheaval. Commuting to Yosemite February 1997, by Kristina Rylands In early January, I made a trip down to LA to be with my family. It's where I grew up - actually Thousand Oaks, a suburb approximately thirty minutes north of the San Fernando Valley. Most of my family's life has been spent commuting: my dad drove a half hour to work in Van Nuys; mom vanpooled to UCLA and later to law school downtown (about forty-five minutes); today, my older brother drives from his home in Burbank to work in downtown LA (twenty minutes); and my younger brother - a salesman - motors all over southern California (heaven only knows how many hours behind the wheel!). My commute usually takes me exactly one hour. "Un-be-lievable!" my friends usually exclaim. "Two hours round-trip just to go to work?" Hey, that's one hour assuming the weather is clear and Highway 140 hasn't experienced any rock or mud slides. Because of the recent flooding, I have to join a "convoy" that escorts us along the Merced River canyon, past rockslide debris, a washed-out bridge, over spots in the road undercut by the river (which rose to almost three feet above the pavement). It's quite a journey just to get to El Portal. Yosemite will not be approachable via 140 for many months to come, perhaps not even until early summer, so I'm told. But in better times, Highway 140 winds through a canyon that changes pleasantly with every day. In spring, Mariposa lilies and Indian paintbrush clutch the rock walls of the canyon's turnouts, while fields of golden California poppies seem to make the steep hillsides glow and shake. And you had better keep your eyes on the road and not on the deep magenta blooms of redbud along the riverbanks. The river swells in spring, and during my drive, I usually catch glimpses of whitewater rafters and kayakers bobbing in the frigid water. I've taken that ride myself and it is truly a wild one! Summer brings the Merced River to a crawl as the water level drops and feeding tributaries dry up for the season. The canyon is hot and dry. Tourist traffic reminds me of my old commuting days back in the Bay Area or LA. And just when you think that no god-forsaken plant could possibly survive on those dusty hillsides, up pop a crop of perhaps the canyon's showiest flower, the vibrant pink farewell-to-spring. This last summer, someone piled up several long, smooth rectangular rocks in the middle of one of the Merced's many sand bars. They were arranged like a miniature disembodied Stonehenge in the middle of the river. Everyday on my drive, I looked for those sculptures and wondered what would happen to them when the river rose. I thought I'd like to be there when the water toppled them over. They stood there for most of the fall, until submerged after a November rain. Fall naturally brings color back to my commute. Black oak leaves turn and the California buckeye becomes burnt orange. The summer traffic madness disappears after Columbus Day. And freezing winter mornings hide icy patches, made clearer only by the trail of sand left behind by Cal Trans dump trucks. It's time to slow down. The road becomes dangerous. One cannot become too complacent along this too-familiar highway. Sadly, we had three cars land in the river early this winter, all within days of each other. Two springs ago, a rockslide just beyond El Portal closed Highway 140 for over a month. We had to take a shuttle up to the slide, walk over it, pick up another shuttle that dropped us off at the Arch Rock Entrance where we boarded a bus to take us into the Valley. I thought to myself, when this road opens up again, I am going to be thankful for every square yard of pavement beneath my wheels. I did give thanks. And I will when the road opens again. When I lived in the city, it would often take me forty-five minutes or more to commute just nine miles. And now, despite the convoys and detours, I love commuting. Good Company January 1997, by Kristina Rylands Let's face it. The other members of my family are just not what you'd call "outdoorsy." My brothers played baseball when they were kids, and my younger brother once went backpacking to Ten Lakes. But that's about it. When my leanings toward the mountains began to surface (around the age of 14 or so), I was on my own. And as I snorted to my mom (I think I was about 15) "You just don't like to do anything fun outdoors," she said "So? Why not follow your own interests and I'll help you find the way." Thus, Girl Scouting introduced me to backpacking, and my friends' parents took me skiing. But I always somehow wanted to share more with them. I wanted them to come along. These days, part of my job is to take folks around the park and teach them what I know about Yosemite natural history. I've taken seventh graders to the top of Vernal Fall and have led seniors--some as old as 80--up to peaks of 11,000 feet. And no matter where I go, I always think "Damn, I wish my folks could see this." Right now my mom's heart won't allow her to walk much, and she's in line for a heart transplant. After a day in the Valley, I daydream that with her new heart, maybe we'll take that walk to Mirror Lake or to the top of Sentinel Dome. After all these years, I still feel that need to share with them the magnificence of nature, especially in Yosemite. What my parents don't know--I've never told them--is that they come with me everytime I go out. I'll take in a good long look at Upper Yosemite Fall from just near its base and think out loud "This is for you, Mom." Or the sweeping view from Taft Point: "What a spot, eh Dad?" Or the view of the Valley as you come down the Four Mile Trail: "Have you ever seen such an amazing sunset?" I love sharing Yosemite with them, and they have always been good company.