Yosemite: Day 3

After dreaming about bears, John Muir and Teddy Roosevelt, I once again woke to the deep rumble of Yosemite's waterfalls. I knew I could listen to that sound every morning and die a happy man.

Once again, I took a low impact shower, posted my status on FB and had a decent size breakfast in an effort to fuel up for the big hike. But first Mike brought us to a trail beside the Merced River to shoot. Here again, everything was tight and specific, pulling our vision down to the small in the large grand valley. I found a rock that looked interesting and after taking the shot, Mike said I should post it on the trip gallery. There seemed to be 4 levels of comments from Mike: no comment at all, which I took as "I've seen it before", "interesting" which meant you have the beginnings of something good, "nicely done", and "post that to the gallery" which felt to me like a home run.

After our short stop at the river, we took the bus to Yosemite Village to buy lunch and headed back to camp to fill up the two 32oz. water bottles that Mike said were a must if you were going to go on the hike. Loaded with my camera gear, a fairly heavy tripod (I understand the appeal of carbon fiber legs now more than ever) a lot of water, a sandwich and some trail mix; we began our walk to the trail head.


The trail was fairly crowded, not with backpacking hikers, but with day trippers, determined to see Vernal Fall 1,000 ft. above the valley floor. Very few carried water, and in total were a good cross section of America. There was a pregnant woman with another child in tow, children sprinting up the steep trail with boundless energy and a farmer in dark orange overalls wiping his forehead with every step, promising God he would be a better Christian if he would just get him to the top.


The trail was steep and with all the weight I was carrying, my lungs were burning. But all in all I felt pretty good and was starting to feel very smart for staying in the previous night.


We came to a series of scenic outlooks which tempted me to put down my tripod and shoot, but Mike said I should wait because it would get much better. He was right.

After an hour of steady upward motion we arrived at the bridge across the rapids from Vernal Fall. It was packed with people mostly trying to get a picture of someone with the waterfall in the background to show everyone at home. I set up my tripod and attempted to take a timed shot of the falls. It was almost impossible. Everyone who walked by was shaking the bridge. And the one time I was able to fit the exposure in between walkers, a small boy with a stick started banging it very hard, shaking my tripod. I looked across the bridge and saw Mike shaking his head knowing very well the problem I was having.


Once I had put my gear away and sat down to eat lunch with our group, I drifted off into people watching. They were from all over the country, and the world, all coming together for this amazing view.


This is what John Muir had wanted, people from everywhere, gathering in Yosemite's breathtaking cathedrals. Renewing their spirit and humbling every person in rapturous beauty. And even though I knew many of these people would not fully appreciate his vision, I knew everyone on the trail that day would be changed by it. Suddenly they didn't seem like a Disney World crowd to me anymore, they were fellow seekers of the feral self, looking to shed the skin of domestication.

We strapped on our gear to hike higher on the trail, leaving the less determined and prepared travelers behind. As we climbed the switchbacks, I began to think of all of you reading this on FB. My old friends, new friends, workmates and such over the last 36 years. I felt like you were all standing behind me as I was climbing, feeding and pushing me on. My blood was pumping like a machine and I felt as strong as an ox.


As we stopped for some much needed water, Ralph and I started talking about the Mist Trail. I told him I had forgotten to bring a plastic bag to cover my gear, since Mike had told us we would be getting wet. Right on cue a bearded older man, who looked a lot like John Muir, walked past us on his way down. Having overheard our conversation, he pulled a new plastic bag out of his back pocket and offered it to me. I thanked him profusely and started once again to climb. Then we reached the John Muir Trail.

Mike pointed out a rock overhang that a famous photographer, whose name now eludes me, hung a sheet from to use as a field dark room. To be a photographer back then meant you had to be a chemist, frontiersman, technician, pack mule and an artist. I think they would have loved the DSLR.


As soon as we started on the trail, I was either on the verge of an altitude induced psychotic break or some kind of mystic wilderness epiphany. I felt like John Muir was becoming part of me. We stopped several times to take shots of the fantastic view of Yosemite Falls, which of course Ansel had taken. I felt something building inside of me. I thought of the poem by Walt Whitman that has the line in it, "I sound my barbaric yawp." I looked up and saw an immature bald eagle riding a thermal against the granite wall that reached upward into the sky. Then it came out. "Yawp!!!!!!" at the top of my lungs. It was primal, pure and satisfying. A few on the trail looked at me like I had lost it. I had and it felt incredible.

I floated up the trail and emerged on the backside of Half Dome. Then up over the ridge to reveal Liberty Cap and Nevada Fall. We were at 6,000 ft. and I was ecstatic. Drunk on the stunning beauty that was in every direction.

Then up the trail behind me came a shaken member of our group named John. A teenage kid had cut the switch back causing a small rock slide, smashing his lens and cutting open his hand. Mike patched him up and John was taking pictures with the rest of us in a few minutes. Yosemite was still the wilderness, if you didn't respect it, you or someone else, would get hurt. Mike scolded the kid who just replied, "You’re not my father."

Undeterred, we moved on to an overlook above Vernal Fall, yet another location unknown to the general population. We then moved on to the rapids above Vernal Fall and a member of our group got a little too close to the rushing water. Mike reminded him that in these waters there is no rescue, only recovery. Blunt force trauma would dispatch you long before the cold water took you out. We then passed the Emerald Pool and then to the edge of Vernal Fall.

We bundled up our gear to descend the Mist Trail. The people coming up were soaked, so I wrapped my pack in the plastic that “faux John Muir” had given me. Walking down the Trail was like being in a rain storm all generated from Vernal Fall. 

We found the one dry spot on the way and took some shots, then bundled up the gear again to descend the rest of the soaking trail. It was like being blessed by the fall and the water soaking my clothes felt amazing. Later, Mike told me when he looked back, everyone else in our group was huddled, trying to avoid the water, but I was smiling ear to ear.


Then Mike stopped at a rock beside the rapids. He said that he knew everyone was tired, but this was a spot were Ansel Adams had taken his famous shot of Vernal Fall and we could stop if anyone wanted. Before he finished his sentence I was on my way down to the rock. 

We took several shots, and then the sun lit up Vernal Fall, giving us a beautiful parting gift on this perfect day.


After a half hour, the good light was gone and we started to hike down to Curry Village. 

Down was a lot easier than up. Mike had taken to calling me John Muir, which suited me just fine. We chatted on the way down, but I was still too intoxicated to remember much of what was said.


We made it to camp and went off to eat a leisurely dinner. Ralph and Scott wanted pizza with some beer and a few of us ate in the dining hall. During dinner Ralph tried to save a beer from being knocked over and cut open his finger requiring 3 stitches that evening. Mike, me and several others talked equipment and video editing until everyone was exhausted and had to go to bed.


While Ralph was off getting stitched up, I brushed my teeth and headed back to my cabin. Once inside I realized I had forgotten to put my toothpaste in the bear box and went outside, unlocked the box and put the toothpaste inside. I looked to my right 5 ft away and saw the outline of what I thought was a large children's stuffy. Then I realized what it was...a bear!! And I was way too close. My heart was racing, but I was surprisingly calm. I slowly walked up the stairs to my cabin going for higher ground as the bear checked my bear box and a few others to see if they were closed. Then, I remembered what the sign in my cabin said to do if you come face to face with a bear. "Get bear, get" I shouted and the bear quickly ran off. My accent would have made John Muir proud, pure mountain man. Then I realized I didn't get a picture, but I figured being un-mauled was good too.


Later on, I heard someone outside. It was a Ranger. I asked if he was looking for a bear. He said yes and told me that black bears had fur between their toes and that way they were totally silent on their approach. He said one time he had a bear following him for 10 minutes before he realized he was there. It was fun swapping bear stories now that I had two.


Then I went back into my cabin and I drifted off to sleep. Todd, climber of mountains and scarer of bears.