For fit people, two hours is a fast ascent of the official distance of 3.4 miles.
It is a mile — without exaggeration — of climbing in that 3.4 miles though. The trail is just about eighty-five percent up! Much of the trail is made of granite steps placed by the Conservation Corps in the ’30s. In the ’70s, they were still using and teaching that same style of trail building. It is impressive, as trails go, for the work required to create it.
That upward pitch is relentless. There are, of course,. a few flattish spots, and there is one pitch that is down, but that is not more than a third of a mile, maybe half, but I doubt that long.
It is hard to tell distances on the trail. It always feels like vastly more.
I know I missed a person here and there, but I greeted almost everyone on that trail on that busy Saturday in July. Often, I asked them how arduous or easy they were finding the trail. Even the people who wished to create an impression of power said it was a tough two hours. So that two hour time is from a survey of at least twenty people.
There was was a wide range of the types to talk to. From total newbies blasting music to lean old race dogs. Couples, singles, and families, but over-represented in this slice of life, young men in groups of two or more. Of course, here and there, women couples too.
I would estimate two hundred people on that trail that day. I got a good chance to estimate, for the fucking climb took me eight and a-half hours!
At the top, I was within sight of three trail heads, so my count continued until I was the last one on the hill.
I was first on the trail.
From that shot of the light hitting the top El Cap, I tarried not. I crossed the road and took the trail to Lower Yosemite Falls intending only to go as far as that, but upon seeing the fork to the high trail, I said, “Fuck it.”
I had the water to get about halfway. I figured I would be OK. There were springs. I knew the trail. I had walked it a few times.
I went.
From my place on the trail there, it said, “3.7 miles.”
Though bright out in the open, it was dark in that lower stretch under the cover of all those twisted live oaks, and that was where I took the first of many, many breaks.
I knew it would be difficult.
Even the slightest climbing made my legs go into anaerobic ache mode. Of course, with me, the was always the ever present pain at my left hip, requiring dozens of stretches over the course of a day walk to keep the agony down to a moan rather than a scream.
I have found a way. I do my stretches before I really need them; I keep my wind always, never breathing through my mouth; I monitor my heart rate. I can go and go and go.
Slowly.
I went and went.
I was on the trail for a half-hour when I was passed by the first person.
He was a fit fellow with a silver metal water bottle and a shirt in his right pocket. He was wearing shorts with artfully bleached hair streaks. His tan was too even for a backpacker. Looked real Santa Monica “LA” to me.
He blew on by, I said, “Hi!”
In his eyes, surprise at the greeting, but a greeting returned pleasantly!
I do that everywhere I go — surprise people with a greeting. It is extremely rare I get an odd response. Almost always, people are glad to respond happily.
He was happy to run up that hill.
Saw him on the way down, said, “Hi” again.
It was that way all day.
They: passing me; I: leaned over on my stick, “Hey!”
Shortly thereafter while on a long break on that walk up in the cool dark morning, going through my hip belt, I found the two boxes of wooden matches I had moved from their previous spot because it was not quite secure. They needed to be sealed in plastic bags. I had put off that task by putting them in my hip belt to remind me.
But instead of properly stowing them, I rid myself of them. They were a bit damp, actually. I could not see hauling those useless things up a mile in the sky and then back down. On a flat rock under a big boulder, I carefully piled them up and lit them all on fire!
Above me, you see, on that boulder were the fire stains left by others from centuries before any vatos came to this part of the world. I was passing up through the band of fallen shards they call the “Indian Caves” area. It had many, many natural shelters. the shapes and landing positions of many shards falling from the cliffs above made it so. Also, in the winter, you got good sun there. I had thought of the area when it rained on me. It figured into back up plans in case a real storm came through.
My head was kept cool by a long-sleeved cotton t-shirt I had soaked in water and wore like a turban atop my black cap. That worked well. Later, I found it was still damp in the arms after being on my head all day.
That lovely feature in extreme heat became a bug when the climate was more temperate. That shirt would not dry out unless spread in hard sunlight in low humidity environments. I was to leave it at a rest stop, days later, accidentally, trying to get the fucking thing dry enough to pack away.
But no matter. On that hike, all day, with the wet turban and umbrella, I was quite comfy in the executive suites of my body’s architecture.
On a hike, morale is everything. No hard slogging and panting for me if I can avoid it. I like to stroll. I want to amble. I want to savor each step. “No pain, no gain?”
Get the fuck off my mountain, infant brain.
It was hard enough. I was not in shape for it. My blood tests had shown I was anemic. I had blood pressure readings that were averaging way too high. My thighs were skinny and my belly was fat.
But, like I said, “Fuck it.”
I wanted that ascent. I would tough it out. I would take my time like never before.
I did that.
It worked.
I got to the top.
I was, and I know because I saw them all, the slowest hiker on that trail that day!
Fuck Jesus Sideways but what a change.
I used to be one of the fastest people on the trail. That style of doing wilderness trails in running gear with only a quart of water?
I invented that.
Like, 1977.
Straight up.
Of course, so did millions of light-foot scouts invent that style of walking in every age of the world.
Once you have felt that feeling of skipping through wilderness with nothing, you will be addicted to the exhilarating freedom!
I have mentioned how I thought my pack was too heavy and did sit quite right?
Well, every pack I have ever had was too heavy and did not sit quite right. I had this one old, boxy, Kelty pack way back when I was a teen that remained pretty comfortable for me right up to the forty pound level when I loaded it as it had been designed. I could forget I was carrying thirty-five pound loads. Never since, in all the “improvements” in pack design has anything ever “set” quite right unless the weight was low.
But so what? Even badly designed packs are fine with no weight.
My next move is to custom make a pack with straps that actually fit my big chest, but for now, I can deal with a little pain.
So far, my favorite pack is one I got for college and books. It was not designed for that but as a tough daypack. I have used it on three day outings.
Too small for this trip though, I thought. For this trip, I used a “through-hiker” pack.
A through-hiker is one who is going a long way on a trail. Long enough they have to carry everything they might need for a couple hundred miles, at least. Some through hikers may get their loads down to what looks like three days and two nights while staying out longer than that.
I was working in that direction.
Enough about gear!
I actually do not like to talk about gear. I do not like “gear reviews.” I do not care that talking about gear is popular. Material things are popular in this materialist culture. I only bring it up because I am talking about less gear because fuck gear.
This whole Yosemite trip was meant to be a gear test though. I had a lot of new stuff. It was also designed as shakedown cruise with an easy and early retreat option. Going up The Falls was a whim.
I felt strong. I was happy. I had food. My tarp would work in the rain. My feet did not hurt. Why not? It would be a good test.
Testing then, I found some limits!
I have never really suffered from altitude sickness as I have seen others many times. But I did on this trip!
Here, for posterity, I will lay down the stuff you watch for, the checks, and the solutions.
First, “altitude sickness” can be defined as: Your body needs more blood to carry a lessened supply of oxygen.
How long it takes to make that blood depends on the body, but two weeks is typical.
The problem will not heal in a day with one climb no matter what you do, but there are things you can do to help the body deal with the stress.
The first, slow down. Like holding your breath underwater. Relax. Relax, relax, relax. You can stay in that sacred zone much longer if you can still your heart and let your sore muscles drink the blood you do have.
The second: water. Drink lots. Drink until your urine is “copious and clear.”
That is a quote from a doctor who was quoted in a chapter of Colin Fletcher’s, The Complete Walker. I had, on that leg of my whole trip, not as much water as I would have liked!
An expected spring was dry, and so was another. It was like August, not July.
As summers go, despite the rain, a drier one.
On the way down, I was delighted to fill and refill my water bottles, the springs growing ever less mineral and ever more mossy in taste, but at the halfway point, it was dry.
I had not reached the halfway point though I thought it was three-quarters when I saw a streak of water on the granite to my left.
The corner place with the streak was nine feet off the end of a sharp switchback. I took one of my longer breaks there. It took some time to fill two, twelve oz plastic bottles. I like those that hold Arizona Tea rather than Gator Aid. They are a touch narrower, and they have channel segments that make them strong for their weight.
Those clear plastic bottles in side pouches are one of those “through-hiker” signs.
It is the most water for the weight — and — those bottles are easily accessed without removing the pack. Those water bladders and sip tubes are great for day hikes, but they are too much extra weight for multi-day hikes in my opinion.
When all is said, I will not be taking that pack out on any expeditions again. Even with a bear canister*, my old REI college knapsack is better. It simply lays in closer, higher, on my back.
Cool to look like a day hiker too. You talk about stealth?
Remember I was talking about being hyper protective of my goose down sleeping bag’s dryness? I hinted at almost dying because I did not understand that limit one time? True enough. I had had a hard lesson about keeping down bags dry. Many experienced outside people will not even use down because it is no good when wet. They will insist on “polyfill” insulation in all critical gear.
I did that too. For years.
But that stuff will not crush as small as down, and it will not reloft as much as down. Yes, when wet, it can be wrung out and used for warmth, often drying in the process, but it is bulky. It is best not to crush it down into iron hard stuff sacks like you can with the best down.
So it makes for giant packs.
The pack I used was big enough to carry a polyfill bag rated to well below freezing, say, 20 degrees Fahrenheit, and still have room for everything.
It was more pack than I needed.
This was to become more and more apparent over the next couple days.
Like I said, this whole trip was intended as a gear test and a test of my own physique. Going up that trail was almost a Bridge Too Far, but I did it.
In the cover photo, you see a fellow I met on the way up. “Ernesto,” if you will. At the time I took this photo, I had seen him chug a beer, “Moosehead,” if I am not mistaken. He had pulled it from his backpack. He also had a speaker hanging out back, and his choice of music on the way up was classic rock.
I did not chide him about the fucking music.
In fact, I was delighted to see someone so alien to my dear outside venturing bravely out. I gave him love, validation, and encouragement to go all the way up!
I know you will think it vain, but I Yosemite belongs to me.
I considered Ernesto and his wife my special guests. I wanted he and she to tell others about their magical experience. From talking to them, no one they know ever gets up there! This is most impressive! I consider them brave. I see them on the way down. We speak Spanish together then.
“Respeto, Hermano,” I say to him as we fist bump. He loves, for his part, how an old vato like I chugs on up, up, up.
I only look white. My family is old Spanish California Mexican on one side. Todo los morenos aqui entienden, pero los albanos? Mierde.
Pero, es nada. El sol es in el cielo. Mira!
I joke about this with them, and I make them laugh and laugh.
Also, on the way up, another fellow I met, alas, incomplete credentials transferred! But, Durga! You asked me about a side trail, but I did not know to which you referred. I thought you meant one much further back before we walked and talked together. No, the trail you saw leads to a famous lookout point.
I discovered this on the way back down when I returned through the area. Never, in all my years of doing that trail did I know about that overlook. I will talk more about that when I get to the return trip part of this story.
I have already talked about the stretch of trail with the slide that killed so many people in one day. It was at the utmost edge of the beginning of that long stretch that I found my first water.
Very few hikers these days will drink water from natural sources directly without treating it in some way, I have noticed. This is a new thing in the world, this, this, having to buy bottled water thing? Weird.
I shall save the topic as a worthy one unto itself. For now, when I saw that hand’s span wide trail of water running down the cliff face to my left, above me, I rejoiced.
I water would likely be warm even if I found a drip that had run under the rock, for the sun heated the rocks here many feet deep. The kind of water you got from tiny springs above will have often traveled through moss, and that will impart a taste.
I have always assumed that I was ingesting many more micro nutrients that way. From hard experience, all the bad stuff you get from water — not including, of course, weird chemical springs, but those are so rare as to almost not exist — comes from stuff that grows in animal intestines. Can deer have pooped in this water? Yes? No? If no and also not stagnant, ten it is drinkable.
I have always held to this rule, and I’ve only gotten sick hardly more than sixteen times.
Evidently, during that period of employment when I was hiking a lot and was tired a lot and was calling in sick a lot? My body was fighting off a kind of hepatitis I had likely gotten from the Merced river. I never drank that water, but I was in it a lot. It got in my eyes, my nose, and my mouth.
I remember being so tired on “my” weekend, I would sleep for two days.
But i did not think that unusual. Only much later did I learn I was actually fighting an infectious bacteria that were I not so strong, it would have gotten to me, and I would have seen a doctor much sooner. I was actually forced to go see a doctor by the restaurant manager. They found a lot of dead hepatitis type bacteria in my blood. They did two blood tests.
I was one of those rare people who beat it on their own, but it left me exhausted. The doctor interviewed me a long time, for I was unique in his practice.
I see I am “humble bragging.”
Well, part of always telling the truth is always telling the truth. Yet I selected hat fact out. Why?
Yes, water can be dangerous. I lived that truth!
But water coming out of a rock? It does not get better. Drink up.
There, then, I found a way to prop up my long since empty bottles under a crassy drip and thus fill them so I could drink that warm, mossy, yellow, dirty water.
Whereupon I gagged and retched, puking up eerily sweet spittle, but a genuine vomit.
I could not drink.
“Fine. I’ll pack and let it sediment out.”
I did that, letting the dirt go to the bottom, but it was a while before I dared drinking again. I had not intended to fast. I had intended to drink lots of water. My body was so stressed, all it could do was keep going up the trail, through the new, open zone, thankfully in shade because I timed it that way, up, up, up through the howling ghosts whose bodies remain unfound in the rocks below.
There is another, better spring with clear, cold water in a flat stretch in the middle of the death zone. I stop and refill there. I dump out that other stuff.
I sit.
I stay.
I make myself drink a bottle, and I fill it again. I do not retch. I keep it down. It is good water. The spirits are at peace here too. It is not this whole stretch. This part seems cleared out of the metal anguish that still haunts other parts.
I was able to rest there, I do know that.
It is hard to impart to you this sense of vastness now. As I sat there, I looked out over an extremely steep canyon. Not sheer, but seventy degrees or something close. The whole trail like that, zigging and zagging up, up, up, silver gray white granite, like fine chocolate chip ice cream, black basalt and white quartz everywhere, all the time. Fresh silver, old sable, stained gold and rust.
That rust carries into the tree trunks, and the gold their dead needles. Add greens. Many, yes, but not many like in other places. Sap green. Dull mainly. Some yellow and rust again.
And blue sky much darker than your sky, with white clouds right near, right in your face, dark gray before you know it.
That is the Yosemite color palette.
It is limited.
Right near, those colors. At that place, a mile wide bowl of granite with that trail going through it, bisected by that rivulet. Across from that, the valley, then a few thousand feet down, flat, and green. We can only see a bit sitting down. Across from that, the cliffs that form the area known as “Glacier Point.” These are high. The three sharp angled rocks were above the highest glaciers. If I recall correctly, Glacier Point is eight hundred feet higher than Yosemite Falls where I was headed.
So… five miles south were cliffs I was eye level with the middle, and those cliffs were more than a mile tall. I was looking at them and sipping my water bottle there where twenty people had died in one incident in just one of he many times people have died on that trail.
I was very tired in body, but I felt good of soul.
I carried on. Resting every few minutes, every minute, if I had to. I had a nice, relaxed time up.
There was more and more water. I even found some unripe blackberries!
The people were sweet and kind. everyone was most genuinely happy to be on that tough trail on that beautiful mid July Saturday in Yosemite.
I know I was.
Up top, I was too tired to explore. My left leg was doing a strange thing of going numb and buckling. I dropped my pack by the trail crossroads and stumbled as far as a rise to the river.
I would wash in the morning.
I spread my stuff to dry in this zone with fallen trees. I set up my tent. I went to sleep instantly without eating again.
Going on a three day fast?
Probably, given the retching, I was sick. But the symptoms were masked by the pain in my muscles!
I felt great. I slept well. And I woke to fucking rain again!
It passed. It was just the one wave, but it was morning, getting light, the next day, time to move!
I lay back down and slept again for just a moment until the sun was hitting my face three hours later, and I heard a woman’s voice saying, as she walked by, on the trail, having climbe4d up from the valley, already? “I thought you couldn’t camp here!”
Great. A fucking Karen in the high country!
(Yes. You can camp there. I probably slept thirteen hours, thank you forest goddess for that time of peace and quiet when I needed it most, and thank you for the wake-up Karen too!)
On to the next chapter!
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* These are heavy, plastic drums you stick you food in. There are various designs, but Brother Bear cannot break them or open them. They are bulky and heavy. Everyone hates them.