Yosemite Diary 1999   How Delaney Refreshed My View of the Meadows by Sanders LaMont, August 30, 1999 We're back in the San Joaqin Valley with its 100-degree days and block-the-mountain haze, but my mind is still with my grand-daughter in Tuolumne Meadows. Delaney is two, and this year she started her own family tradition of a summer visit to the high country of Yosemite. She's picking up where her grandparents began when they moved west 20 years ago, packed Delaney's mother and brother into the VW camper, and discovered the real Yosemite around Tioga Pass. I got to see Tuolumne Meadows for the first time again through Delaney's eyes. (If you want to enhance your high country experience, take along a two-year-old child. It's a great way to learn.) Instead of her mother and father joining my wife and myself for a week near Tioga Pass, this year things changed: We joined her family. The first day of Delaney's tradition began at a campsite near the Tuolumne River, close enough to hear the water cascade across the granite shelves and see the silver glint through the trees. For several days, "the ribber" was the center of her world and mine. We walked to river together as soon as the rainstorm blew over, the car was unpacked, and the tents pitched. The first words of her new Yosemite vocabulary were taught originally to me by a ranger during a geology walk several years ago, and passed on to Delaney the first hour after we arrived. By the time her parents joined us at the river edge, a carefully-coached Delaney pointed to the shining rock beneath her feet and announced, "Glacial polish!" She quickly established that the "ribber" with its wonderful "beach" full of rocks, was a place a child could play happily for days. And she had her first lesson in putting away the food carefully so the bears won't come too close. Day two Delaney walked us into the meadow, and showed us its wonders. She saw fish in the river, ground squirrels courting in their townships and peeping at intruders, birds skimming for insects, and wildflowers. She showed a family from England how to enjoy playing on the riverbank near Parson's Lodge, and I delivered-- as promised -- a drink from Soda (pop) Springs and told her about Mr. Lembert. She was so intrigued that soda pop came from the ground, she even believed me when I said it tasted good. Before the evening was over, she got to see "Bambi's mother" with her own mother and grandmother. She understood the big doe on the edge of the camp was to big to be Bambi, so it must -- obviously -- be her mom. She learned to watch quietly, but to tell about it proudly when back in camp. Day three Delaney spent most of here time along the banks of the river. It was time for serious wading and rock relocation, all within the limits of good environmental behavior of course. She had an introduction to the curious species of "camper," and got to see a man dressed in full camouflage gear, one carrying a small hatchet to protect himself from the bears, one who slept on the roof of his truck, and a couple with three very large dogs. And she met her first bear, a female, brown in color, with a familiar gait.. Twice. Even at two years old, the carefully rehearsed Delaney knows good bear etiquette: she doesn't leave food lying around, knows that the bear box should be latched at all times (the polite ranger reminded us), and cooperates when she hears the words "Bear!" She finds her mother or father, who appear to be stronger than grandparents in a stress situation, and climbs up on them to watch from a safe place, not unlike a cub. Late afternoon Delaney's mother -- who doesn't feel friendly to bears near her child -- said the magic word: "Bear!" Sure enough, bear #1250, without her three cubs, was heading down the hill to our camp, but steered away the minute Delaney's mother and neighboring campers began serenading her with pots and pans clanging. The bear took one look at the noisy humans, heading to the edge of camp with pots banging, and turned around and moved off toward the horse camp. That exercise provided sort of a visual aid for Delaney to the lesson on bears and how children should behave, and just after dark when #1250 returned -- spotted again by the eagle-eyed mom -- Delaney was ready to watch, and bang a pot, so long as she was in the arms of a large strong parent. The bear gave up and went away, but she'll be the subject of pre-school show and tell for quite a while. Delaney shared some other special moments with me which will not be forgotten. She attended her first campfire, and learned the joys and singing along with the ranger, and walking home tired through a dark campground. She learned about the generosity of campers sharing their food and children's toys and stories and memories. She learned there is an unlimited supply of rocks for a little girl to play with, and when you leave them where they are they will be there when you return. She met Bambi's mom, a mother bear the rangers are trying to save from herself, and enough birds and ground squirrels to tell stories about. She saw Lembert Dome in the moonlight, and Unicorn Peak rearing into the sky. And she learned how to spot glacial polish, and probably will tell her young friends in the city play group all about it. This year she missed the hike with her grandparents along the flanks of Mount Dana, and she will unfortunately never be greeted by a smiling Ferdinand Castillo or hear Carl Sharsmith talk about the flowers, just as her grandparents did not get to know John Muir or Galen Clark.. But I'll make sure she hears about them. And she'll get to know a new generation who will take their place in Yosemite. Delaney will climb mountains I never quite set foot upon. But next year, I plan to tag along again, just so I don't miss out on something new and wonderful.   Hope Amongst the Tragedy by Susan Seiling, August 5, 1999 Like many universities, my college hosted a march called "Take Back the Night" each spring. The march filled the humid evening air with the voices of women fed up with the fact that it's not safe to walk alone on a college campus at night. It seems tragic that I can think of this protest and Yosemite in the same sentence. When I first began hiking and exploring the outdoors, I wasn't afraid of Mountain lions or bears. I was afraid of madmen in the wilderness. In college, I wrote an article on how to protect yourself from crazy men while hiking (as a means of teaching myself), and came up with no concrete conclusions. I finally told myself that such people only existed in horror movies--not in real life. Of course, I've had to rethink this logic recently. My husband woke me up when he heard about the tragedy. He was watching the eleven o'clock news, and saw that a woman had been killed--decapitated--in Yosemite. She was an employee, and they were treating it as a homicide. At that point, that's all the details that were known. I instantly pictured the women I knew in Yosemite....The girls who would drive down to Oakhurst for dinner and a movie with me....the women who sat together in quilting circles....those I saw everyday in the employee gym, sweating and nodding hello. I thought about the women in the Lions Club, and imagined them bundled in polartec and mittens, selling Christmas trees--I thought of all the women I knew and loved. And I prayed the news report was wrong. Joie Armstrong was 26--my age. When I saw her photos on the news, I saw a woman full of life, energy and love for the outdoors. It made me sick and sad and mournful. It filled me with the kind of fear that stops me from running at the local track in the mornings--just in case someone decides I'm alone and vulnerable. Though I didn't know Joie personally, I do in the sense that Yosemite is made up of people like her. Most people in the park have a deep love of nature, and are willing to live in Yosemite for no other reason than that to experience its seasons. It was Joie's mission in life to teach children about this nature--to teach them to love and respect the world around them. When that man decided to kill Joie, he took away another point of light in our world. He took away one of the women in our community. And he took away a feeling of security people so deeply crave. My favorite part of living in Yosemite was the long walks I'd take every morning. I like walking alone. I like the solitude, and the way thoughts flow when my feet pace a repetitive rhtyhm. I like being able to hum silly songs to myself, and not have to explain them to anyone else. Walking in Yosemite, I always felt safe. My friend in the park said that it has been extremely somber in Yosemite Valley since the murder. But she also said it has brought the community together, reinforcing and recreating friendships. That somehow made me feel hopeful. Every single time I think about Joie, I imagine myself in her place--and imagine how easily it could've been me, or any other woman. And then I think of the community in Yosemite, where neighbors lend tools, share jokes and honestly watch out for one another. It's the kind of place where you walk together to take back the night, trying to find strength in one another in the aftermath of such wrong. Hope also lies with the Yosemite National Institute, which established a memorial fund for Joie Armstrong. The Joie Armstrong Memorial Fund will be used for teaching children about special places like Yosemite and the Marin Headlands so that students and teachers will have the opportunity to participate in the programs that Joie loved to teach and in the places Joie loved to live and learn. "We are all filled with sadness at Joie's loss. As a way to heal the feelings from this horrible act, we honor Joie with this memorial fund so that her spirit and work may live on," said Linda Brownstein, Chair of the Yosemite National Institutes Board of Trustees. "Just as Joie inspired people by giving so much of herself for the betterment of the world, we hope this fund will inspire people to give so that students will continue to learn about the environment and themselves." To make a tax-deductible contribution, please make your check payable to the "Yosemite National Institutes / Joie Armstrong Memorial Fund." Funds will be used for programs at all three campuses. Contributions can be sent to Yosemite National Institutes, G.G.N.R.A., Building 1055, Sausalito, CA 94965. You may also refer to their web page, www.yni.org/armstrong.   Respecting Your Elders by Douglas Broussard, July 21, 1999 I moved to San Jose, California over four years ago. That must not sound like very long to most Californians, since they invariably ask if I've gotten settled. I've moved five times in those four years, only once living in a house with any character or presence. It should come as no surprise that the 'Murphy house' was my favorite--it was the oldest place I had lived in since moving to California-almost 60 years old. The youngest house I'd lived in by the time I was twelve was over a hundred years old; a cypress and oak masterpiece built before the 'Y1.9k problem'. I found out a few days ago that termites had eaten up most of that place, due to neglect by recent residents. It is now near ruin, and not habitable. A tragedy in white paint. I got turned on to the Sierra in early 1998, partially because growing up in Louisiana left me rock-starved. The sight of huge, ancient and permanent gray-green granite boulders living amongst the oaks and dogwoods roped me in as surely as John Muir and countless others since. I'm sure my red blood cell count has increased measurably over the past year&emdash;I've spent nearly a quarter of my weekends in and around Yosemite and the eastern Sierra making photographs, hiking, and lately, self-examining in a ruthless manner, while trying not to break an ankle. I noticed a lot about California while in transit through the short slice of state between San Jose and Oakhurst (just south of Yosemite on HWY 41). I saw the battle-ready and Armor-Alled SUVs rolling through the South gate of Yosemite, parents in the front, Tamagotchis and Game-Boys in the back, ready for a no-holds-barred transplant of city life to country. Liz Claiborne and Baby Gap load up the SUV with groceries from Safeway, carry them hundreds of miles, and then feed the bears via the window. The wisdom of the ageless rocks and oaks affronted with plastic wrappers and Ziploc bags? Of course. Welcome to industrial tourism, taken to the logical extreme. I feel not that the people who go through these motions are evil, or even somehow faulty; simply that they have not had the chance nor the motivation to learn why their behavior is wrong. Tourists have not been invited to remember the wonder and joy of discovery; they have never been invited to respect age for its qualities, but simply for the fact that it is old. They are tantalized instead with postcard memories and shrink-wrapped souvenirs. Your National Parks in a box, ready to slide into the trunk and be examined later. Discovery--something new and unique but old--discovery of wisdom to leave things alone while enjoying them, preserved and unspoiled for others to follow. I invite the tourists who insist on bringing every manner of electronic and plastic doohickey into camp to leave all that stuff at home. Instead of carrying a hundred pounds of prepackaged store-brand goop to Yosemite National Parking Lot, bring some fresh vegetables or some granola-type food. You'll be glad to have the energy that real food affords when you go hiking. Go back to the office on Monday and impress your co-workers with your snapshots and the tale of standing on top of Sentinel Dome, and how the kids were quiet for once because you got them out of the car for some real exercise. A hike, with no Icee drinks, no beeping distractions, and no constant chatter. (Honestly, it is remarkable how quiet your children can be when they're out of breath at 8000 feet.) Don't go to Yosemite because you need an excuse to take your Expedition or Suburban someplace 'wild'. If you happen to get it off the road, you will not only be unlucky, but in violation of the law. Go there to appreciate age, power, and if you like, busloads of tourists. Open your mind and learn. Don't feed the animals because sign says not to. Find out why the sign is there. Work the coffee and doughnuts out of your blood. Learn to appreciate the luxuries of modern, warm sleeping bags by not building a bonfire to burn marshmallows by. Clear the air, and don't bring your brown inversion layer to the valley. When you leave, and reluctantly so, make sure the place is exactly the way you left it, because every pinecone you steal, every gum wrapper you drop, every twig you pilfer for kindling is literally multiplied by millions over the years. You are not allowed an exception for litter or noise or being obnoxious; you are not as special as this place, as wonderful and as individual as you may be. My beloved house in Lousiana disintegrates because of ambivilance. With over four million tourists visiting Yosemite every year, it's important to be pro-active. Take personal responsibility for how you treat this place of grandeur. Even the ancient, silent strength of the Sierra cannot withstand carelessness. An Addiction to Topo Maps by Susan Seiling, June 24, 1999 It's an obsession. Every year, around the time when Tioga Pass opens, and the high country becomes blissfully accessible, I become addicted to topo maps. It began in college, when I realized my boyfriend's Nissan Sentra would go anywhere we pointed it. We began spending nights pouring over the atlas, planning future trips and dreaming about the topography that makes up the United States. My map addiction kicked back in last night, when I discovered that we had the weekend free. With our checkbook balance hovering at its post-rent-payment low, and California gas prices so high, a road trip is out. We simply don't have the cash. But we do own some decent backpacks, sleeping bags and a few Clif bars. When the checkbook fails, you can always backpack. I always begin the season with high hopes--I run my finger along trail routes, counting the number of days I'd need to complete the journey. I have an easy time finding four or five day hikes. Hikes that leave enough time to move far away from roads and RVs. Hikes that leave you itchy and tired at the end of the day, longing for a lake to take a swim in. But in reality, I usually only have time for overnights. There are people who can log 40 miles in two days. I'm not one of them. My body is strong enough to make it up out of Yosemite Valley without serious injury--and I can usually carry myself and my backpack a good ten miles before I become whiny, cranky and an annoying wife. In a place like Yosemite, ten miles into the high country is oftentimes as nice as 20 miles in. I have to remember this fact as I stare at the topo map, frustrated that I don't have the time to hike the routes I've heard about, but have never had the time to complete. So I just spent a good hour staring at my topo map of Yosemite, trying to plan my first backpack of the season. When I was at Glacier Point two weeks ago, it looked like there was no snow below 7000 feet or so. So I should stay around the elevation of the rim of Yosemite Valley. When I was at Tuolumne Meadows three weeks ago, it was flooded and patchy snow. It's still too early to do a backpack out of there, and not get completely soaked. I'll need to figure out a way to get a wilderness permit. For a moment, I wish I still lived in my old house in Yosemite Valley, which was 50 yards from the wilderness permit station. I'll need to find time to pick up a bear canister because hanging your food does not deter bears in Yosemite. In fact, last time I backpacked, a bear rolled my bear canister around my camp, trying to get at my dinner. Backpacking without a bear canister means you'll end up being very hungry--the bear WILL find, and WILL eat your food. Even if you hide it. I thought up a few potential routes that are rigorous, but not too long. They're good backpacks for the first hike of the season. I just need to talk it over with my husband (my former boyfriend with the Nissan Sentra). This means we'll spend another hour pouring over the topo maps...   Backlight by Susan Seiling, June 5, 1999 Evening has fallen. The crickets chirp incessantly in the long grasses off my porch, and the sky alters to a peachy glow before dissolving into a violet baby blue. A cicada just landed in my sparkling water, it's slimy green body wriggling amongst the bubbles. Summer is here. A quarter of a mile away, a state highway twists its way through this mountain community, depositing tourists neatly on the floor of Yosemite Valley. The sound of cars fills my ears as they accellerate then slow. I block out the motors, and focus on the crickets. There is something about summer nights. Sitting outside, feeling the air cool, as if the earth itself is exhaling. Just as the last hint of sunset fades, I feel as though I'm in the back country of Yosemite. I watch the inky silhouettes of the fir trees grow less defined as the sky darkens. I watch the sun fade, and imagine the mountains in the distance. I imagine the bluffs and the coast and the ocean and suddenly feel very small. We usually cook around this time when we're in the backcountry. My husband photographs last light, and doesn't stop until his light meter reads double-digit minutes. In the meantime, I set up camp. By the time he's done photographing, I have the camp stove heated, ready to cook instant rice or soup or whatever we brought. The light of the stove blinds my night vision, and I see flames, even when I look away into the darkness of night. Alone in the backcountry, the world feels immense. Perhaps it's because time slows down when I hike 10 miles, leaving my car parked, carrying all I need for survival. Miles take on a new dimension--a new challenge--when you walk them. When you clock every rise and fall of the earth with the angle of your quadracep. Once evening falls after a long hike, my hips feel loose, my legs are sore and my feet are blistered. I feel the stickiness of sweat and sunscreen and dirt form a paste on my body. I long for a shower. Then the sun sets. The coolness of the evening air fills every ounce of me, replenishing my body after the heat of the day. I watch the silhouettes of fir trees grow dark aginst the clear royal blue of the California sky. It grounds me. Gives me a new perspective. Renews my conviction in God and light and life. And so it's amazing to feel this same clarity, after a full day of work, sitting on my back porch. The sun has sunk far beneath the horizon and it's so dark, there are no colors in the world right now. I tip my waterglass over, and watch the water pour over the lip of the table. The cicada bug shakes off the carbonation. A huge mosquito flies next to my nose, and I nearly drop my notebook. A jet flies overhead, carrying a city full of people who can still see the sunset, they fly so high. And I sit in Oakhurst, California. A Four-Mile Tradition By Susan Seiling, May 24, 1999 It's becoming a tradition with me. Every year, before the road to Glacier Point opens, I hike the Four Mile Trail. It's an intense hike--as difficult as any that lead up the 2500-foot cliffs of Yosemite Valley. But it's my way of welcoming the summer--another season of hiking and exploring the High Sierra. I didn't think I would be able to complete the hike this year. The road to Glacier Point has been plowed for a week now, and could open any day. Plus, our new business keeps us firmly anchored to our computers. Days that we do take off are usually spent cleaning the house, and doing other menial errands. But yesterday, we decided to head up to the valley. It was after noon when we arrived. We planned on just going for a casual stroll along the Merced River, swollen to its springtime capacity. But as we drove by the trailhead and noticed that the "trail closed" sign was no longer posted, we decided to ditch our predetermined plans, and hike the trail. It was a windy hike up. As we climbed higher, and worked our way around the bend of the South Wall, the wind pushed my hair into interesting shapes and styles. Sand blew up from the trail, clicking against my glasses, making me glad I'd foregone my contacts for the day. There's nothing worse than a piece of granite dust resting on your cornea. The sun hid behind thick thunderheads for most of the hike. I wondered if we should proceed, but didn't say anything. The moment we question the weather or a situation, we usually turn around. The wind, the exertion, and the sweat gathering where my backpack rested on my hips, left me feeling alive. I didn't want the exhilaration to end. As we worked our way up the wall, we commented on how surreal the valley looked. From one viewpoint, I saw the Sentinel, Cathedral Rocks and El Capitan, jutting out of the green valley floor. From another view was Half Dome, Cloud's Rest and North Dome. But the dominant feature on the trail was Yosemite Falls. Besides the exceptional view of the falls, the sound of the water falling accompanied each footstep. It was a constant roar, accented by loud claps that sounded like both thunder and a rockfall. I kept looking up the cliff, prepared to dodge falling rock--only to discover it was the noise of Yosemite Falls, over a half a mile away. Though the trail is Yosemite-gorgeous from the beginning, my favorite part begins at Union Point--about an hour and fifteen minutes up the trail. This is one of the best views of Half Dome available in the park. I seem to appreciate it more than views in the valley simply because I have to work for it. After Union Point, the trail winds up steep, forested switchbacks with large sugar pinecones littering the path. As I approached Glacier Point, I noticed the sky had shifted to cobalt blue, and the thunderclouds moved to the north and the west of the Valley. I dragged myself up the final steps to Glacier Point, snacked on some Granola Bars, took off my boots and took in the view presented before me. Last year, when I hiked to Glacier Point, the High Sierra was still covered with snow. This year, the snow has already melted below about 7000 feet. Just the tips of the mountains still have snow, as opposed to the entire high country. I analyzed possible backpacking trips for the summer, and my eyes zig-zagged, looking for trails I've explored in years past. I was astounded by the sheer quietness of Glacier Point, without the cars and tour buses. Waterfalls called from the west (Yosemite Falls), the North (Nevada and Vernal Falls) and the east (Illouette Falls). Birds twittered, and squirrels rustled through the manzanita, looking for food. The squirrels didn't try to scavenge any of my granola bars--they went about their business as if I barely existed. This was a far cry from the squirrels in Yosemite Valley, who are used to being fed by humans, and have become obnoxious beggars. I lay back, watched the clouds growing tall and thick in the North, and listened to the sounds of the valley. I woke up a half hour later, amazed at the deep sleep I fell into. In a week or two, Glacier Point will be noisy and bustling. Car alarms will ring, children will play catch with the pinecones, and the Indian Paintbrush will become short-lived accents in women's hair. Though I love being able to drive to this astounding view, there's something more rewarding in working for it--in knowing that everyone who makes it to the top is interested in experiencing Yosemite with their entire being. That's why I have a tradition of hiking to Glacier Point before the road opens. No matter how many tourists fill these walkways in the coming months, I'll be able to hear the echo of solitude the place represents. Finding Yosemite in New York City March 10, 1999, by Susan Seiling After growing up in a suburb of Toledo, Ohio, I longed to trade in the manicured lawns and narrow viewpoints for something entirely different. I felt the itch to live in a big city with tall buildings. I wanted a penthouse apartment so high, cars on the street would look like Fisher Price toys. As I worked evenings at the local ice cream store, I longed for city life: musicals to attend; museums to visit; parties where I could mingle. After studying the Travel section of our local paper every Sunday, I decided New York City was the place for me. The summer after my junior year of college, I found myself an internship in New York. I worked from 9 to 5 at a weekly business magazine, and the rest of the time, I was free to explore. But unlike travelers to New York, I had very little money to play. After paying $140 in rent each week, I had about $60 left to eat and play. So I became creative. Instead of taking the subway home every night, I would walk. The walk took me from 56th Street to 11th Street, and I was constantly amazed at the range of neighborhoods situated within a few miles--everything from fast paced business centers; to quiet residential sections; to abandoned warehouses (where I walked quickly). Each night, I tried to take a different route. That's how I began to know Manhattan. Like most large cities, New York boasted an overwhelming range of museums. So I made a checklist of all the museums I wanted to see (most of them were free); and each Saturday, I'd wake up early to begin my day of being a tourist. With a backpack strapped to me, and little more than a few dollars for a bottle of juice for lunch, I'd take on the city. One weekend, feeling especially indulgent, I decided to treat myself to a matinee on Broadway. I scanned the New York Times, and chose Miss Saigon, buying the cheapest ticket for $15. I found my seat, which was pressed against the back wall of the balcony. But the theater was arranged so I had a full view of the stage. The music; the drama; the amazing characters all combined to make it one of the most memorable afternoons of my summer. I also discovered that, even in New York, some things are free. I went to a Sarah McLachlan concert in Central Park for free--just after her first single hit the charts. My roommates and I found a free comedy show at a bar in midtown Manhattan. We went, only to discover Lifetime Network (which had been launched only a few months earlier) was taping the show for television. Since I worked at a restaurant magazine, the staff was often invited to luncheons at places like the French Culinary Institute and Gourmet Magazine. Since the regular staff members had full schedules, they let the interns go. I, queen of pasta with Prego sauce, was introduced to gazpacho and finger sandwiches. In fact, I probably would've liked New York if I hadn't been to Yosemite first. After visiting the park, I realized that getting away from my Ohio town didn't mean I had to move to a city. The exposed granite cliffs couldn't have been more opposite from the cornfields I grew up around. And in Yosemite I learned to appreciate the small things--birds pecking at nuts on the ground; the range of color in a thunderhead--the penetrating cool wind on top of a granite dome. These seemed much more thought provoking than the flashing lights on Broadway. Little things in New York began to make me itch. There was no lawn anywhere--heck, there were hardly any trees! My boyfriend sent me Desert Solitaire--a book by Edward Abbey about his time as a park ranger in Arches National Park. I could only read 20 pages before I put it down--all the talk of open space and clean air made me depressed--I was too far away from that reality. As I walked, it bothered me that it took effort to look at the sky. And several times, downpours virtually snuck up on me. It would be warm and humid one moment, with the sun shining. The next moment, rain would dump upon me. One particularly nice Saturday afternoon, I decided to explore Central Park. The lawns were full of people, basking in the sun. The pond where you could rent a rowboat was virtually bank-to-bank boats. I settled down to write near a fountain, only to have a creepy man peer over my shoulder and read my journal aloud. There was absolutely no place in the park that exuded what I needed--quietness, and time back with nature. Then I found a trail that led to a tree covered hillside. It was surrounded by what looked like granite boulders. I hiked through the area for maybe 20 minutes. I saw only one or two other people, and was torn between feeling scared that someone would mug me, and enjoying this area that looked so much like Yosemite. Yosemite? In the middle of Manhattan? Maybe New York was making me a little insane. In a city like this, just seeing a few trees growing spontaneously would remind me of Yosemite.... But there was more to my reaction than I thought. A few months later, on a trip to Yosemite, I recounted this experience to one of my friends in the park. "Of course it's like Yosemite," he said. "Frederick Law Olmstead (the architect who planned Central Park) visited Yosemite just before he mapped out Central Park." As it turns out, Olmstead's trip to Yosemite influenced his plans for Central Park in not-so-subtle ways. He learned first hand of the solace the small aspects of Yosemite could lend a person. His goal was to create with natural and primitive aspects--like Yosemite--in the middle of a huge city. Judging from my reaction, he succeeded amazingly well. It's been five years since that summer I spent in New York. After ten weeks, I decided that city life presented a number of opportunities, but not necessarily those that are dearest to me. Once in a while, my father will ask about my childhood dream of living in a "city with tall buildings." I tell him I was confused back then--I wasn't envisioning tall buildings, but tall mountains. Afterall, Yosemite Falls towers higher than any building in the world. From the top of a sky scraper, the cars look like Fisher Price toys. From the top of a mountain, I have the world at my feet. February 22, 1999 by Susan Seiling When we were dating, I told my husband his proposal better be memorable. It should be something that makes our kids roll their eyes and making gagging sounds as we recount the story. It should be romantic, creative and well thought-out. In 1992, we flew from Ohio to Yosemite during a college spring break. The airline lost my luggage (of course), so I wrapped my 5'4" frame into his 6'5" clothing. We had that dazed, tired feeling from traveling all day, mixed with prickly excitement from seeing the grand walls of Yosemite for the first time. Everything seemed surreal. The plants looked foreign and vibrant; the trees towered to bewildering heights; it looked nothing like the midwest. After checking into the hotel, we drove to Bridal Veil Fall. We hiked to the base, and squinted through the waterfall's mist to view it. The mist created rainbows all around us--in the drops of water hanging from the trees; in the current of the water flowing past us; in the air. It drenched the ground. That's when he bent down on one knee (saturating his blue jeans completely) and proposed. I think I tortured him with my response. I didn't want his amazing California-style proposal to end. I felt too dazzled. So I asked him questions. Really stupid questions about marriage, and the significance of being engaged, and anything I could think of to make it last. Finally, he said, "Stop asking questions! You're supposed to say, 'yes!'" ***** After that trip, I flew back to Ohio a different person. Not only was I engaged, but I felt enlightened by every bit of Yosemite. The height of the trees; the immense amount of granite; the bright blue stellar's jays; the contented trot of the coyotes--it was a scene far beyond my imagination. I went home feeling convinced no one could dream up a place as divinely perfect as Yosemite National Park. Yosemite has become a kind of grounding point for me since then. That's where I went after college, when I had a full resume, but no job. When my husband and I were married, we settled in Yosemite to celebrate the first few years of marriage--and iron out the inevitable kinks. While I lived in Yosemite, I feared I would stop appreciating it. There are people who have lived there their entire lives; people who know nothing different, and take the echo of full waterfalls for granted. I didn't want to be one of them. I made a point of hiking major trails at least once or twice a month. I bought books to study the birds and flora of the valley. I took the free art classes at the Art Activity Center. But a strange thing happens when you live in Yosemite--or any tourist destination. You are surrounded by people on vacation; people who are escaping the problems that make up their real lives. Everyone looks refreshed and hopeful. But slowly, as Yosemite became my home, it became my "real life", complete with its own set of problems. I started to resent the tourists. I started to dream about other places to go, just to get away from the park. Last summer, as I sat at Glacier Point, I became frustrated at my nonchalance. I wasn't feeling enlightened, or even awed by the vista. That's when I realized that everything in my life making me tense and unhappy was within the scene before me. Work; a messy house; piles of unpublished essays and poems; it was all down there, in Yosemite Valley. I moved from the valley shortly after this realization, and now live 30 minutes from the park's southern gate. After I moved, my frustration with Yosemite quickly switched back to awe and thankfulness. ***** Last weekend, we found ourselves in Yosemite Valley to celebrate Valentine's Day. The holiday filled the valley with an entirely different emotion than I'd ever experienced. It wasn't like the bustling excitement of Christmas--or the festive anticipation of New Year's Eve. The only way I can describe the emotion is loving contentedness. I watched a father crown his daughter with a tiara of metallic hearts. I saw husbands feign patience as they waited in line to treat their wives to lunch. I watched deer leisurely select their meals from the meadow. Everything seemed to be moving very slowly; very patiently. Throughout the day, I felt as though I had been transported back to that initial trip in 1992. Everything seemed big and glamorous and inspiring. The granite glowed a majestic silver; the water of the Merced River smelled cool and clean as I sat on the riverbank; my jeans were unbuttoned at the top as a result of overindulging at the Ahwahnee Buffet. Instead of looking at the walls and remembering the pile of laundry waiting for me at the other end of the valley, I let the shadows of the granite awe me. And instead of feeling resentment towards everyone else who goes to Yosemite to escape, I felt like one of them. For the first time in years, I let myself feel content just being in Yosemite Valley. I didn't pressure myself into a grueling hike, or deny the delicacies of the Ahwahnee because I was supposed to be "roughing it." I concentrated on spending time with my husband, removing ourselves from work and home and the tedium of our daily lives. I realized on Valentine's Day that my relationship with Yosemite is like any longterm relationship. It started with infatuation, then changed to a steady contentment. Then I became so disenchanted, I left. But now I'm back for good. Because Yosemite gives me perspective on what's truly important in life: open spaces, a quiet mind, and person to sit next to as daylight dramatically succumbs to the blue haze of dusk. January 21, 1999 by Susan Seiling I always imagined I would be single and wild in 1999. I swore I wouldn't have kids until after the year 2000, so I could "party like a rock star" during the turn of the millennium. In more serious moments, I imagined I would be a famous actress, or at least an anchor person on a major network. Here it is, 1999. I'm married (happily); no kids (though the partying I envisioned back then doesn't sound very appealing now); and I spend my days updating websites and tweaking photographs on my computer--jobs that didn't even exist when I was a child. Somehow, I feel like I've entered a science fiction movie every time I look at the date. And as I examine my daily life, I realize that in many ways, science fiction has become reality. My husband and I earn our livings working on websites and digital photographs. We spend long hours staring at 17-inch monitors, trying hard to remember to do basic things--like blink; or stretch our wrists. I watch television via an 18-inch satellite dish. Over 100 channels are beamed from a place that finds me, even though I live 60 miles from the nearest television station. The propane company hooked my tank up to a computer. When the tank dips below 30 percent capacity, the computer lets them know, and they fill it automatically. I just ate a piping hot dinner from my microwave. It didn't involve slaving over the stove or even chopping a spare vegetable. Nope, just peel back the plastic cover, and nuke it for five minutes. I don't need to go on to display how every single aspect of my living involves high technology. Lots of digits. Someone had to be very smart to make the basics of my life so easy. Indeed, it's easy to forget how convenient life has become. Just before I moved to Yosemite, my husband and I ditched every ounce of technology in order to feel the real world again--to feel sweat glue a t-shirt to our backs while hiking; to learn to cook real meals instead of microwaving a frozen dinner or going out. We cashed in on high tech living to see what it was like to live more simply. And it was cold. The home we lived in had no central heat. We learned to chop wood and kindle fires. I watched my biceps grow larger as the temperature dropped, and smaller as the weather warmed. We learned what it was like to work for warmth--and became quite sweaty in the process. Instead of going to a fancy gym, I began to take long walks. It was the best way to watch the precision of each season come to life. In spring, the reflections in the Merced changed from drab brown to an impressionistic canvas of green. While gazing into the river, I discovered a group of trout and bottom-feeders. After several months, I realized that, no matter how cold or how hot the weather, they continued to hover in the same deep hole. At my job, I discovered what old fashioned customer service was about. I learned how to talk with total strangers. I would pull out a pretty watch, and learn that the woman was buying herself a gift after her first round of chemotherapy. I would comment on a unique ring, and discover that it was a family heirloom from the 1700s. I would roll up a poster of Half Dome, and find out the couple had just become engaged after hiking to the top. I gained a perspective on humanity that simply cannot be obtained over the internet. Last summer, I left Yosemite to embrace technology again. But I've brought all I learned in Yosemite with me. I go for walks to discover the pieces of nature in my Sierra foothill neighborhood. I turn off the lights and listen to the rain. When I go to the grocery store, I look kindly at people. And when I feel I've drifted too far into the world of technology, I call up the webcam on Yosemite Association's website, and imagine myself walking within the view.