Magic

I took very few photos in this next area where I remained for two nights to eat, sleep, and heal.

I found the spot quite by accident. I know a human had been there in the last century because I found a small rock on a large boulder out in the open that could only have been placed there. From a distance, I thought it was a trail marker — one of those little stacks of rocks we call “ducks” because they often do quite look like ducks. One rock, two rocks, three rocks, each smaller than the last. The stacks are oddities in the natural landscape, and to our eyes, jump out.

Some old ducks have only one or two stones though. I thought this was merely an old duck, but there was no trail.

The fire signs on the big, flat exposed rock on which I slept the first night fire were fifty years old, perhaps. Hard to tell. But decades old.

There would be no cars, no one walking by on a nearby trail, no one. Nothing. Even the bear sign was a month old.

I was, finally, alone.

The knoll I found was to the west of the North Dome trail. I had followed the trail up a ways as a recon mission only, having no intent to go the four miles to North Dome. I just wanted to see the shapes of cliff tops there. It was new turf in Yosemite for me.

I saw the trail was wending up to my right.

I was still too tired and blood-low to essay that journey then. I looked at the line of the trail and sighed sadly. Rather than follow the trail therefore, I rolled up and over a couple of long ridges with beautiful, open, flat tops. There were many fine camping places there! The area looked relatively lightning safe too. One can tell because the lighting strikes blast dishes in the granite. Certain spots will have many, others, none, yet both might seem equally exposed.

I rarely camp on open ridges. They are are too windy and cold. But on hot nights? That might be desirable.

However, I have yet to experience a “hot night” in the Yosemite high country! Nights are almost always cool if not cold. But it rarely drops below freezing.

Still, sleeping warmly in thirty-nine degree temperatures with light gear can be a neat trick.

Every once in a while it will snow in the middle of summer, and it will snow long enough for the snow to stick and accumulate more, all day and night.

Usually calm, The Sierras can have sudden and nasty tantrums.

I was in one of those freak July storms. Before that, not in ninety-nine years, and Since then, never as cold or wet.

That was 1974 when I was sixteen. The full details of that are worth a write-up of its own.

However, I was deeply impressed at an early age by the Mercurialness of Sierra weather. I thereafter tended to always come prepared for that extreme danger however once-in-a-century it might come. Like my grandparents before me for whom the Great Depression burned in deep patterns, so too did that Great Storm burn in survival patterns.

If you have read other chapters of this from-the-life novella, you will recall that when rained on suddenly, my first instinct was to keep my sleeping bag dry! Only then did I deal with the rain. I learned that the hard way, way back then, when my bag was soaked and remained wet for days. Just as a few days before I had learned that unless covered, my screen tent would catch and keep rain like a wading pool.

One of my nephews, in a recent text, pointed out how large the packs are of most backcountry voyagers one sees on the trail.

But I like a small pack. That is why I keep using goose down insulation in my sleeping bag. It packs down small yet springs up big, over and over. I had one ultralight North Face bag last me almost ten years before I could not get the down to recover its loft. I learned it was too tired for real work one summer in Tuolumne when I got damn cold, finally, on one of those thirty-nine degree nights. I had used that bag in zero degree environments. So they do wear out.

Few people would consider so light a bag as I like. I have looked at lots of sleeping systems, and it seems mine is much more minimal than most would have,

So those big packs are big for that wrong reason — carrying too much stuff, but they are also right for other reasons because there are some good reasons to carry more stuff.

The best reason, I think, is when you mule for a beloved who you wish to introduce to the wilds. For them, you wish only comfort. It is already stressful for newbies. So you carry more stuff. That is a good reason to haul a bigger pack. You assuage their fears, essentially, by providing them with familiar objects. Things like tents, for example, make people feel safe. But, they also provide privacy in crowded camp areas. A nice, big frying pan! Wow! Now see? That’s luxury! It becomes luxury because one has carried it on one’s back some distance. But if your party has freshly caught fish, then that big and relatively heavy pan will be worth the long haul.

Point is, do not think I am a minimal snob.

We All Walk Our Own Walks.

I have learned that the smaller my load, the happier I am on the trail.

This trip proved to me I had fallen into the “too much stuff” trap again.

Though I was already carrying so little, it was still too much.

For that rain, I would have been drier had I no screen tent at all.

While I respectfully fear the lightning with the cold and wet it usually brings, I still ironically no longer carried much defense from any of that.

I had found that if things really turned ugly, natural shelter with my light tarp supplement was even better than a tent, or, being lightly burdened instead of carrying all this stuff, I could damn near jog out of danger.

In this way, though the danger be worse than any I had yet known, still, I was ready with a lighter load than the previous life’s epoch of also ready!

Essentially, the process of load lightening was one of replacing bulk and weight with foresight and skill. As I accumulated experience, I was able to get lighter and lighter.

And damned if this whole fucking trip was seven steps back from earlier achievements of lightness.

The bug tent. What a waste of spinal strength that POS was.

The combat boots. Love/hate there. Loved the way they armored my feet when I stumbled. Loved their stream wading performance! Holy moly molecats! Best stream wading footgear I ever found. The Vietnam style with the cloth upper dries fast too. So, I was enjoying those aspects. They were breaking in nicely. I still had a couple hotspots, but I could doctor those well enough so they did not worsen, and once warmed up, walked relatively pain free in those boots.

But heavy.

The Falls Trail had proven that. Armor advantage; weight disadvantage.

Every time I set them down and wore the sandals I also carried, I felt like dancing.

The problem was I had hurt my feet pretty badly last summer in those sandals going sockless walking the San Joaquin River. That was why I had reverted to boots. I was using ’70s foot tech! Truly. In 1974, “jungle boots” were considered light boots.

They felt like agonizing weights on my feet climbing up that trail. It was their last outing of this kind, I knew that on the way up!

One time, another time on the Falls trail, hiking home, in the last stretch, I had been so hurt by this one pair of very expensive boots that truly did not fit me, I took them off and walked barefoot that last mile.

I left them on the trail. Yep. Fucking things. Shoes and I have love and hate relationships in general.

So in addition to the screen tent, let us add the boots. Certainly, once I source the cloth, I could make a bivy sack lighter than my good old red North Face one, but it is still a half-pound lighter than the Big Agnes screen tent, so with the boots, that is a three and a-half pound cut.

My tarps were two. One was a bit heavy and small. I replaced it with a larger and light one. More useful and of less weight, but the net gain was only two ounces. The bag of stuff I pulled out as superfluous weighed three and three-quarters pounds. My long-sleeved cotton shirt would not dry out if I went to bed with it damp. So it was useful as sleep gear and anti mosquito armor as I planned. I left it drying on a rock at a tourist rest stop in the valley by accident!

I lose on weight switching to my smaller, sleeker, older pack though. About four ounces.

Still, all up, “Boot weight” I call it, I’m down ten pounds.* All my gear without food and water — for actually colder weather — in my next trip is still down ten pounds, that is. I’m down in body fat too. I have gone up in muscle, but by my measurements, I have lost twelve and a-half pounds of fat.

In one trip. Yes. I burned that much fat.

It was “brutal,” as I said. I had a moment or two when I remembered people getting helicoptered off the mountain. I could see someone’s heart giving up.

Finally after that end of endless up and up, I came to the iron creek crossing and the junctions of two other trails.

One went over a couple mountains to get to the Toulumne River gorge. I had taken that trail a few times before. The other led to the lookout almost to my tight and behind me, the river, “Yosemite Point,” and North Dome.

I had never been up that way beyond the river. I would go that way, that was for sure.

But at that time, it was all I could do to get my stuff out drying, still wet from the rain that morning, eat a bread cake, and sleep.

It was while slowly ordering camp the next morning I heard the Karen say something about not knowing one could camp there.

I went to the river to water up, swim, and rinse my clothes. I love to do that every day if I can, but nature does not always give one such gifts, so I took advantage of the offering then.

And then I was off uptrail! The walk to Yosemite Point was idyllic!

I finally went to Yosemite Point.

I say, “finally” because in all my years of hiking up there, I never went north from the trail there. I had always before gone across and over to the Tuolumne River gorge.

Yet, as I said, I had always wanted to explore the Yosemite River above Yosemite Falls. Each time through the area it had beckoned me. Again, “Through-Hiker’s Syndrome”: You pass quickly through the most beautiful and comfortable parts of the route, but you remain slowed or stuck in ugly and uncomfortable parts. Therefore, I had always wanted to linger in the area slowly rather than pass through quickly.

This is, as I see it, the biggest downside to “through hiking.” One racks up the miles in this style. But thus one also too quickly zooms through the prettiest areas on the whole trail.

Yet, to the contrary, you only find out where the prettiest places were after you have been there and compared them to other not as pretty places you also tried to zoom through. So there is the upside. You spot great stuff. But how many hikers return to those spots to do deep exploring?

I know some do.

I do.

Do you?

Do you have special places you like to go to and yet not sit around but travel through and get to know better and better?

At this stage of my life, I find it wonderful to revisit places I wish I had gotten to know better.

Among one of many finds, I would say I found The Throne.

If Yosemite had a Ruler, their seat would be at Yosemite Point.

I said almost those exact words — I used “King” — to a fellow I met there. I’ll won’t use his name because I do not have permission to publicize any parts with him in it. Hopefully, he’ll see this and green light my representation of him.

But if, as I do, you try to pleasantly greet everyone you see on the trail, you will eventually find one here and there who will enjoy a break and a chat with you. And very often, because you have so much in common just by hiki8ng that trail, you find yourself meeting the most excellent people!

I told you I had this primeval purpose “to explore?” Well, this applies not merely to the universe, map-wise, but to people too.

I continue to wonder at the differentness of us. Each person is like an entire universe unto themselves.

Maybe you think I am exaggerating. But I think that. I feel that. Each of us, a universe.

So, see? For an Explorer? Irresistible attraction.

And of course people can tell when they are greeted by a “people person.” They fill job rolls throughout society. I you have ever been, say, a doorman! (I know, humble job, huh? You think?) But they get their acts down slick and smooth. Never a ruffled feather. Never, ever, from them? A hint of threat. Yet notice how very often a doorman, all sweet and smiling, is a big strong guy. He is the lion at the gate of a place he guards. They can fuck your shit up, most doormen.

A whole universe, I tell you. Next time you are sitting and waiting somewhere, ask them what’s their scariest story! The old ones will have a few!

But that is an example of someone who while out and about will naturally greet any and all, and will have impeccable manners. The better taxi drivers and chauffeurs will be the same. I Hermann Hesse’s version of the life story of the one commonly known in the West as “The Buddha,” he charmingly places his hero on a ferryboat at the end period of his set of many revelations.

While driving for Uber, I likened my job to that job. I was taking people across the river. Both sides! On the ride, we got to talk. Or not.

I hide it here in one sentence among many, but under my purpose of exploration lies the duty to expand a certain quality of spirit that many label “love,” but it is bigger than that, for the quality I speak of encompasses fear and hate, lies and death. You might think that “love” is that, and perhaps it is! But I have yet to meet anyone professing a love ethic alone as the end-all solution who does not shatter on impact. Mainly, it seems, such people are trying — philosophically, true, but from thoughts come action — to make you less threatening to them.

Is that love?

So I like to skip the word even though I commonly use it when I part company. “Peace and love,” I say.

I know what I mean when I say it.

On the trail, one will meet more than in other places those who might self-identify as “hippies.” In that culture, the love ethic rules. I believe in the love ethic too. I also believe there is a fake, inverted form of that “love” that looks pretty on the outside but is rotten on the inside.

Do not think me critical. I have been parts of both.

I much enjoyed the trail up and across the Yosemite River to Yosemite Point. It had this one stretch through tall mix if trees — ceders and ponderosas normally found lower were huge here, but also were mixed in Jeffries and some high altitude junipers.** It was shady and sunny is striking stripes across the trail. I left my pack on the ground there to lighten my load because I thought I was coming right back.

It turned out I was so energized by Yosemite Point, I decided to push on towards North Dome instead of go back to the river.

But part of that energy was no doubt due to meeting another fine spirit at that lookout above Yosemite Falls called “Yosemite Point.”

This is probably the location of the best view in the whole park, and I never knew about it. Glacier Point is pretty good too. It is higher. You can see the high country better from there, but you get view from the other side of the valley at Yosemite Point.

I met another solo hiker there. I usually open with something innocuous, like, “Hi!” This will be followed by something else agreeable, in this case, “Wow! Is this the best view in Yosemite?”

That last question is loaded because their answer will tell me whether they are new to Yosemite. I do not want to tell experienced people anything they already know, but I do not want to talk over anyone’s ability to understand either. Trevor’s answer was something like, “I think it might be!”

That told me he was excited and happy, and he knew Yosemite. I asked if he was alone too. Yes, for this trail, no, for the trip. His group was in the valley. He needed more trail time; they needed more relaxation, so they all happily separated for a half-day. Trevor agreed this was the where the throne would be.

An archeologist! You do not meet many professional archeologists!

So while we took pictures of each other, enjoyed the view, challenged the edges of the cliffs with new casualness, we also talked.

A subject of great interest to me were the cliff swelling people of the Southwest deserts, and he had done work there!

This is all a worthy set of topics for other days, but I did bring up things I had heard more than one old Navajo say about the cliff dwellers that were different from what most anthropologists have said. It is a subject of some contention and dispute.

I myself have been to ruins, and I would most briefly summarize the big pattern of what I see: There were “little people” and “big people.” There were the “old ones” and the “new ones.” It is written in the rocks. The old ones carved bedrooms in living stone — actually vitrified clay type rock, usually — and they were little, like five feet tall. The new ones built tall walls, and they were a foot taller. This all happened suddenly, and the old ones were gone.

Archeologists and Navajos tell different stories about what happened then.

The stones tell us that basic story though, if I have read them correctly.

I hope Trevor reads this and can tell me how my precis is wrong, if it is.

An archeologist, I expect, could tell a six thousand year-old ruin from as two thousand year old one at a glance from a distance, but I cannot. For example, the age of the newest walls compared to the oldest carved caves are numbers I do not know, but I sure would like to find out!

According to the Navajos, There was a new group that came in and enslaved the old ones. They — or rather, their slaves — built right on top of older stuff out in the open, but they themselves were not cliff-dwellers.

Architecturally, I have seen many examples in the Southwest of stacked stone structures built wiho0ut mortar. To build these big, you have to have pretty thick walls. Suddenly, there are these tall, deep walls! To my eyes, they look like the designs of a different culture.

Again, huge set of topics. I would like to talk more about them with an expert like he.

A final note about “systems.” I use that word to describe methods by which one deals with the dangers posed by nature. In this case, his water system. He had a bladder type bag on his back with a sipping tube. And he had a backup bottle. When he had used up his bladder, it was time to turn around, for it was three-quarters his water supply.

Thought I would mention that. Smart!

We walked back down the trail together. I, to retrieve my backpack and he to return to the valley and there rejoin his group.

I would push on. I had decided.

Before I continued on up the trail towards North Dome, for it forks almost at the point, I rested under a tree a bit, there to organize the top of my pack.

I heard a few voices. One fellow was calling to another to come check out the view from the place I called “the throne.” It is better than the point. It is true.

I heard another voice and looked up to see another young man waving his hand as if to say, “Stop. Go away!” And when he answered back, I could hear the stress in his voice.

My fire fighting training had thrown gasoline on an already emergency oriented nature. An alarm went off.

That kid was hurt!

I saw him stumbling by. I asked him if he was dizzy. Yes, he was, with a headache and nausea. I told him he needed water! Now! I offered some of mine, in fact, but hen one of his friends came jogging over. “Water. This guy needs water!”

They would share. I knew.

He had altitude sickness and dehydration. He was a small young man, maybe a fit one forty? Much lighter framed than his bigger friends. He had a small tank and a tighter equilibrium zone is all. Young men do not wish to appear weak before their peers though, so he was trying to appear tough.

The reason I single out these three in particular is that there was such sparkling joy in their eyes! It warmed me to see it. Literally laugh out loud joy! I told them all how to tell if water was drinkable. I assured them the river water was fine.

They thanked me each for the advice and took off back down the hill.

I was alone the rest of the day. And the next. And most of the next. I remembered fellow walking with a little kid on the falls trail. I was heading out, they were heading back. He had a big back. The kid hardly anything. We greeted. He asked where I was headed. He said they were on their way back from North Dome. The kid was small. No more than eight? Ten? The an may have been not his dad but the grand. I would ave liked to talk more!

But I remembered them and their place.

I have no idea what North Dome is like. At this writing, I have never seen the map or even a trail guide. I simply decided to walk in that direction. It did not look arduous.

Without quite meaning to, I wandered quite far off trail when I was exploring that ridge — more like a huge, quarter-mile knoll. At the time, I thought I might catch the trail again, and then I guessed wrong as to whether it ran along the cliff or dipped inland. I went inland.

And so it was I went completely off trail then. Not a problem. I still had water. But I would need to find another refill before I would feel truly safe about overnighting. Looking at the shapes of the folds in the landscape, I decided I would stay on the same slope of the ridge I was on and traverse deeper into the wild country there. A ravine coming up would likely have water.

It was slow going.

In this type of off trail walking in that environment, one inevitably encounters barriers.

I tried to stay as high up slope as I could, and I tried to see snags coming up and tried to head up, over obstruction rather than yield hard-earned elevation. In this way, one can sustain a long traverse high up on a slope as I said I was doing. In this case, because I was not planning on going higher, when faced with too long a slog up to get around something, I would drop down lower until I saw a clear path across the hill deeper into the wild.

You will find odd places this way.

I found this one clearing. I liked the ground. I could see soft, warm spots that had received almost no rain in the last storm. They were very sheltered. To one side, a big rock shelf, to the other, a dry ravine and hillside.

I needed water, but there had to be some near, for mosquitos would come wafting in on the fickle breeze.

Maybe my net tent might earn its keep, for a change?

But I decided to continue exploring. Rather than go down the ravine into brushy stuff, I went up, over, behind the rock shelf and there found another open knoll of the grandest shape! The sun was still on it! Perfect!

I dropped my pack to wander a bit, saying, out loud, “Some water would be nice!”

Looking down through a patch of yarrow I saw a glint of…

Water?

Yes!

A spring. Right there. It was a drainage, yes, but otherwise dry. I had found one of te places the underground river had a surface leak.

Perfect.

I would rest there. I had finally, finally found the rest camp I needed. I would sleep. I would eat. I would prepare for the rain…

Now!

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* There are varying ways of determining what to “count” when weighing in. What they call “base weight” seems to be something many people fudge. Supposedly, it is the weight of your loaded pack minus food and water, but also the clothes you are wearing. I think that is where people mislead, for their clothes might be every stitch they have, and they are dressed for winter storms. Footgear alone can be terribly heavy. That weight will not include such things as waist packs, umbrellas, or walking sticks either. I use the term “boot weight” therefore. It is the number you get when you load up and stand on the scale.

It is the max number.

To me, it is the only number that really matters.

From this number you subtract your body weight. Then you have two vectors to attack to bring down boot weight.

The first and easiest way to bring it down is to carry hardly anything. Heavy weight is Exhausting! No fun! Better to go without something than to carry anything extra at all.

A harder but especially valid way to bring down boot weight is to lose body fat. I did a lot of that on this trip!

** At some stage I shall have to write up a tree guide, but it was interesting here that high country and low country trees were so mingled. But, Also ponderosa pine and Jeffery Pine are hard to tell apart. Both are “yellow pines.” One can learn to see differences from a distance and still be fooled close up, but the cones are definitely different, and they do not hybridize.