Rain and Cold

Journal Entry

Today is a day of rest for my body.  The physical exertions of yesterday's dawn-to-dusk hike were considerable.  Generally the day after any long hike is a rest day, or a day of several short hikes, time to let the body recoup and stretch its muscles.  So far I detect no serious tightness in my legs or hot spots on my feet.  Although my mind wants to go on another long hike, today’s sporadic rain dilutes my drive and encourages me to saunter around and observe nature.  This is also a good time to catch up on housekeeping chores—especially cleaning up the tent, as I tend to dump things in when I return from one hike and reset my backpack for the next day’s activity so that I can take off at daybreak.

The impact of weather on camping and hiking is brought home as I encounter changing weather conditions in mid October.  When it's rainy, much of my attention is focused on staying relatively dry.  My first concern is for the inside of the tent.  When my tent and sleeping bag get wet, the trip is over.  Once the tent is secure, then I resign myself to sloshing around all day, with parts of me perpetually wet.  I can endure a day of wet feet and half-wet pants, wet hands and a wet face, as long as I have a dry place to return home to at night. After yesterday's late rain, when I had to deal with a little seepage under the tent, I moved my tent to a spot under a tree that stayed dry during the storm.  Cold, wet weather is a different creature.

Hiking in the mountains when it's raining isn't fun because the trails are always going up or down and will be slippery and potentially dangerous in spots.  The added weight and layers of rain gear slow me down, making long hikes cumbersome, and blisters are more likely to form on soggy toes.  Hiking over flat ground in the rain is fine because there's not much friction put on the bottom of my feet.  Yet the sights of the valley in the rain are filled with wonder, and it's tempting to risk hiking up to specific spots on the mountainside just to take photographs.

As I come out of Tenaya Canyon in Yosemite after a short hike, the skies darken and it begins to sprinkle.  Then thunder cracks and bangs through the sky. I love rolling thunder, especially the type that I can feel rumbling deep in my chest.  The wind increases and blows camp chairs, branches, and pieces of small sailing ships across the path. I make it back to camp and grab my rain gear.

With the gear on, I head for the open meadows so I can see what the storm is doing to the surrounding mountains.  Of particular interest is the white cloud floating just below the lip of Upper Yosemite Fall.  It's the only cloud that is this low.  The color of the water in the fall matches the white of the cloud so it looks like the fall is pouring into the cloud like a basin.  I wonder if it’s possible that the fall is creating the cloud?  Maybe the cool air flowing down the Yosemite Creek canyon behind the fall is mixing with the humid, warmer air rising from the valley floor and forming a cloud at the junction. Lightning flashes and unleashes a thunderstorm that unhitches the cloud from the fall to float down the valley towards Curry Village.

Why does walking through the rain in a wilderness place move my deeper emotions? What is it about fog that seems to erase the boundaries of time?  Why does a storm make even mountains seem vulnerable?

I walk through the pouring rain from Leidig to Sentinel and down to Stoneman and Ahwahnee Meadows.  As I return to camp the rain stops and I introduce myself to Tim and Dave who arrived today and discover that as I was watching that cloud form below Yosemite Falls, they were at the top of the Falls photographing it from above as lightning started zipping around their heads.  Later I learn from a ranger that it snowed so much at Tioga Pass they had to close the road.

I turn in early at 8:30 p.m. to get some sleep in case the storm intensifies overnight and I have to battle it to keep my tent upright.  I sleep fitfully for ten hours as the rain resumes, waking repeatedly to listen to the sounds of the storm echoing off the valley walls, and to check the tent for leaks.

The storm makes it clear that I’m not in control here.  The weather, wild animals, and the exposure to the elemental forces of the earth tell me that I am visiting a world where life and death go on and nothing is assured except this moment.

Overnight the air gets colder as the freeze in the highlands moves down into the valley.  Temperatures have fallen into the 20s.  The carrots in my cooler are frozen.  The car won’t start, and I may have to break out the insulated winter coat that makes me look like a blue Michelin man.  It's supposed to warm up a few degrees today and a few more tomorrow, but the sun won't rise over the south rim of the valley and reach Camp 4 until 10 a.m. keeping camp cold, and we’re on the sunny side of the valley.  At noon, I'm still getting the last of the chill out of my bones.  Today being a rest day between long hikes, I don’t have anything scheduled on the docket, other than to get warm, and I walk around the valley floor trying to do just that.

Last night, to my great delight, I found out that the hood to my new sleeping bag works great in cold weather.  Called a "mummy bag,” I can either leave the hood flat, or pull the drawstring so that it comes all the way around my head and keeps it warm.  I can draw it so tight that only my nose sticks out.  This allows me to breathe fresh air and expel moist breath outside the bag, while I stay warm and dry inside.  I used to wear a stocking cap and duck inside my old bag, but by morning I was cool and slightly moist, so this is an improvement.

If I know that I have a warm place to come back to, I find have a great time tromping around in the cold.  If I'm cold and wet and know that this isn't going to change, I don't enjoy being outside as much.  But I confess, it's a growing edge—to enjoy nature’s beauty whether I am warm, cold, or wet.  I am not Cuthbert who intentionally sits in the cold water off Lindesfarne.

-- Mark Liebenow

The Church Bowl and Ahwahnee Meadow

            Walking on the upper trail going through the talus by the Church Bowl one morning in October, trying to find Gold cup oaks, I begin to notice little things.  Usually I'm busy looking up to see how the massive peaks and domes look from different places in the valley and at different times of the day.  But today it’s the little things.

            The sun is in exactly the right place to reveal a crevice in what I thought was a perfectly smooth dome.  And I notice that even though the sun is shining brightly and there are no clouds, the valley seems to be partially lit, its luminosity cut back by twenty percent, and I wonder if this is similar to the unique lighting that draws painters to the south of France.

            Coming down to the valley floor, I walk through the Church Bowl where worship services used to be held.  There’s a stone pulpit to one side broad, an open area for the congregation to stand, and a few rows of leveled ground, perhaps for the choir.  There’s also a memorial to the pastor who was here during World War Two when the valley was taken over by the military for R & R and the Ahwahnee Hotel was converted into a hospital. 

            It hasn’t rained much over the last two months and the valley has dried.  I peek into a small hollow in the woods and find it surprisingly green and filled with water-dependent plants like horsetails and rushes.

            Wanting to linger, I sit in the southwest corner of Ahwahnee Meadow.  The only tree in the meadow is what I call "Mother's Tree" because she is surrounded by her offspring.  I estimate there are sixty first-generation children and at least twenty second-generation grandchildren in a tight circle around her.  It's hard to be accurate because she’s in the middle of a restored meadow, which means that I can’t walk over to her to count.  The afternoon is warming nicely from the morning's lingering cold as I lazily watch the Royal Arches, Half Dome, and the meadow.  The openness of the meadow provides a clear view of the splendor that is Half Dome, which is probably why a webcam has been set up here on the top of a wooden fence.

            Above the Church Bowl, a number of climbers are making their way up the swirling rocks.  About 250 feet to the left of the Royal Arches, a broad horizontal band of scratches goes across the rock.  They’re on a bend in the canyon wall and I figure that they are either the result of a glacier sliding by scratching the wall or of geological layering.  I walk over for a closer look but even when I’m looking up from directly below, I can't tell which it is.  But standing here, I see about the scratches a ruler-straight fault line coming down from the front peak that is almost at perfect right angles to the fault line.  How this was created befuddles me.  It seems too straight to be natural, and almost everything around it is expressed in molten rock that cooled into rounded domes and curves. I'm simply at a right place to see the straight lines.  

The Old Wawona Stagecoach Road

There are a number of special areas in Yosemite that I treasure because of experiences I’ve had there.  These places continue to resonate in me, and I return to them whenever I can. This is my journal entry for one hike on the old Wawona Road.

In the morning I leave the Wawona Tunnel parking lot and head up the Pohono Trail. Twenty minutes later I reach the junction with the Old Wawona Stagecoach Road. Normally I would turn left and follow that trail to Stanford Point, Taft Point, Sentinel Dome, and Glacier Point.  Today I turn right and continue uphill on what used to be the road that came in from Wawona.  The road was built in 1875 over an old horse trail and the road was closed in 1933. 

Half an hour later, a bend in the road brings me back for a moment to the Pohono Trail at true Inspiration Point.  I continue on the Old Wawona Road.  It's less congested with fallen trees and wash outs than the Old Big Oak Flat Stagecoach Road on the north side of the valley.   In places I walk across soft, crunching carpets five inches deep of pine needles and cones that have accumulated over the years.   A pileated woodpecker, lean and about a foot long, flies by and lands a short distance away.  It looks at me as if I have disturbed its solitude, and I probably have.  By the looks of the road not many people ever walk through here.  In the middle of the road a coleus-type plant grows by itself; the only one of its kind that I see around.

After an hour and a half I reach the overlook near the end of the abandoned road with a magnificent view of the Big Meadow, Foresta, its two restored barns, and I feel a connection with history.  The original barns were the place where early travelers loaded up on supplies before entering the valley.  Turtleback Dome is directly below me, on the bend of the current road as it comes out of the tunnel from Discovery View.  Elephant Rock is out of sight.  A short ways beyond here the Old Wawona Road dissipates into the forest on its way to Wawona.

Walking back down the trail, all is quiet.  There haven't been many scenic moments along the road, but at Inspiration Point, where the early travelers got their first look at the valley and saw El Capitan is in full glory.  According to recent research, Lafayette Bunnell and the Mariposa Battalion probably first saw the valley from this spot, rather than from Old Inspiration Point.

I leave the road and take the Pohono Trail back down toward the parking lot.  A side trail leads to a spring with an old stoned-in basin that was used perhaps by thirsty passengers from stagecoach days.  Two and a half hours after starting out I'm back where I started.

Yosemite Valley Place Names, A-G

Locations, who named it, when, and sometimes why.

Arrowhead Spire-- between Yosemite Point & Indian Canyon, Sierra Club 1930s

Artist Point--west end site where Hill made early sketches of the valley

Basket Dome-- North Rim, up canyon from North Dome, Native legend

Beatitude, Mt.—the place where the Mariposa Battalion first saw the valley (Old Inspiration Point)

Black Spring--north side of Bridalveil Meadow

Bridalveil Fall/Meadow-- west end, Hutchings 1855

Broderick, Mt.-- by Nevada Fall, named for US Senator from California,

Bunnell Point-- in Little Yosemite Valley, for Lafayette Bunnell 1920

Castle Cliffs- under Yosemite Point, 1907

Cathedral Rocks—to the left of Bridalveil Fall

Cathedral Spires—on the south side of El Capitan Meadow, Hutchings 1862

Clark Point--south wall near Vernal Fall, for Galen Clark 1891

Columbia Rock-- overlook on Yosemite Falls Trail, 1/3 the way up, 1873

Curry Village—east end of the valley, David & Jennie Curry started with 7 tents in 1899

Dewey Point-- on Pohono Trail, for Admiral Dewey

Discovery View--the view from the east end of the Wawona Tunnel

Diving Board--south of Half Dome

Emerald Pool--just above Vernal Fall, 1856

Fern Spring--foot of Mariposa Trail, by Pohono Bridge, 1871

Fissures-- by Taft Point, Eadweard Muybridge, photographer, 1867

Four Mile Trail—goes from base of Sentinel Rock to Glacier Point, built by John Conway 1871

Glacier Point--east end of the valley, south wall, 1864

Grizzly Peak-- overlooks Vernal Fall on the north side, Charles Bailey 1885

Gunsight--Leaning Tower as seen between the Cathedral Rocks

People's Names in Yosemite

Part Two

with date of first visit

Matthes, Francois--1930s, wrote the definitive geological study of Yosemite, The Incomparable Valley, published in 1950.

Muir, John—1868, born in Scotland and raised in Wisconsin, his essays and books on Yosemite brought people to the valley.  Founder of the Sierra Club and regarded as the founder of the American Conservation movement.

Muybridge, Eadweard--1867, early photographer of Yosemite, realistic style.

Obata, Chiura--1930s, watercolor painter.

Olmsted, Frederick Law--1863, a landscape architect who early on saw the need to protect the valley, and pushed Sen. Conness to make it a State Park.

Orland, Ted--1966, photographer with wit, i.e. see his photo "One & a Half Domes."

Rockefeller, John D. Jr.--1930, with the U.S. Government, he bought out the logging interests, especially in the area above Bridalveil Fall.

Rowell, Galen--1970s, ground-breaking mountaineering photographer.

Russell, Carl--20th Century, Field Naturalist for the Park Service, wrote 100 Years in Yosemite.

Savage, James--1851, an attack on his trading post on the Merced River outside the valley spurred the formation of the Mariposa Battalion, which he led.

Snyder, Gary--1955, discovered his poetic voice in Yosemite working on a trail crew.

Watkins, Carleton E.--1859, early photographer of the valley.

Weed, Charles Leander--1859, first photographer, hired by Hutchings to take photographs he could use in his magazine.

Whitney, Josiah—California state geologist who disagreed with Muir over what forces created Yosemite.  He felt the valley floor dropped thousands of feet and that glaciers were not involved.  He was wrong.

Yosemite Sam--I haven't seen the crazy varmint yet, but I suspect he lives over by the Wawona Pioneer Village.

People's Names in Yosemite

Part One

with date of first visit

Ayres, Thomas--1855, was in the first tourist group.  He sketched the first drawings of the valley, which Hutchings used in his magazine.

Bunnell, Lafayette – 1851, a doctor was with the Mariposa Battalion when it entered the valley in pursuit of the Ahwahnechee.  He was overcome with awe and thought the valley was called "Yosemite."

Cleenewerck, Henry--1880s, landscape painter.

Conness, John--the U.S. Senator from California who put the Yosemite park bill before Congress in 1864.  Abraham Lincoln signed the release.

Conway, John--In 1871 he built the Four Mile Trail; in 1873 he built the Upper Yosemite Falls Trail.

Curry, David & Jennie--1899, they started a new concept in tourist travel by setting up seven tents for summer travelers at Camp Curry.

Hill, Thomas--1862, early realist painter.

Hutchings, James--Organized the first tourist group in 1855, set up a hotel in the valley, and extolled its wonders through his magazine, Hutchings' Illustrated California Magazine.  He owned the sawmill where Muir worked. 

Johnson, Robert Underwood--1880s, working with Muir through his Century Magazine, he helped get the areas around Yosemite Valley made a National Park in 1890.

Keith, William--1868, after a trip with Muir, he began painting in the grand realism style.

King, Clarence--1860s, wrote Mountaineering in the Sierra Nevada, 1872, a great example of early frontier literature.

King, Thomas Starr, Rev.--1860, a Unitarian pastor, he was the first person with a national audience to push to make Yosemite a public park.                                                                                                                                         

Lamon, JC--1859, first settler to live in the valley year round, planted apple trees that can still be seen in the area of the Curry parking lot.

Lebrado, Maria--20th century, often referred to as the last of the Ahwahnechee.

LeConte, Joseph--1870, early geologist, contemporary of Muir who also saw a need to preserve the wilderness, although for utilitarian reasons.

John Muir

I grew up in Wisconsin playing in the woods in all seasons and reading about John Muir, as well as about Aldo Leopold and Sigurd Olson, nature writers in Wisconsin and Minnesota. I lived near Muir’s home, we both went to the University of Wisconsin, and one side of my family is Scottish, so there are those connections. Then he headed west and found himself entranced and delighted by Yosemite’s grandeur.

When I moved to California, I wanted to experience the place that Muir raves about in his books, the place that nurtured his soul, so I went to Yosemite.  I was, and still am, amazed that such a place can exist – a valley with granite walls that go straight up for almost a mile, waterfalls that flow into the valley from every direction, mountain peaks that stretch to 13,000 feet, and giant sequoias that are 300 feet tall and 3000 years old. I continue to use Muir’s words to guide me around the valley and draw closer to nature.  He also liked to hike by himself, and by doing so I find solitude that nourishes me.

John Muir was instrumental in saving Yosemite from development and founded the Sierra Club in the late 1800s.  He realized the importance of taking care of not just the valley but also the watershed, for if the source of water in the mountains was diverted for irrigation, then the valley and its creatures would die. 

Like Muir, when I’m in Yosemite I feel surrounded by something much greater than my individual life.  I feel awe and wonder, as if I’m touching something eternal.  I feel a spiritual presence. When I stand on the top of Clouds Rest at 10,000 feet and look down at the forests, canyons and rivers that have looked this way for thousands of years, I am profoundly moved.  Nothing else affects me this way.  Nothing else inspires me like the wilderness. Nothing else gives me such hope.  

Trail Markers, part 3 (the not-so-well-known places)

Cataract of Diamonds – below Nevada Fall and above the Emerald Pool

Cave of Spirit Voice – This is the cave at the base of Upper Yosemite Fall.  From the valley floor it looks like a dark gap, but it is large enough to stand up inside.  Muir spent a night here.  I spent half an hour one October and collected Yosemite Falls in my cup.  It had been a dry year.  From the cave, the Lost Arrow is off to your left.

Contemplation Rock – one of two overhanging rocks at Glacier Point.  It is more commonly known as Photographer’s Rock.  You will see people dancing on it occasionally, although not legally.

Devil’s Elbow – a loop in the Merced River opposite El Capitan.  Its course was rearranged by the massive flood in 1997.

Diamond Flume – one name for the narrow canyon above the Nevada Fall bridge that is particularly glittery at dawn.

Enchantment Point – one of the early names for Valley View.  I like Enchantment better.

Fern Ledge – This is a ledge 450 feet up from the base of Upper Yosemite Fall.  The falling water arches away from the rock at this point, and Muir once tried to walk across it and got into trouble when the wind shifted the water back into the wall.

Ledge Trail – This was an early trail that went from Curry Village to Glacier Point.  It was only a mile long but really steep.  Much of it was wiped out by a rockslide in 1984.  After the rockslide, I tried to hike up from Curry on remnants of the trail until the trail disappeared and I began slipping on piles of loose gravel.  So I stepped off the trail and enjoyed a controlled slide back down to camp.

Horseshoe Grotto – At the top of Illilouette Falls.  If you hike the Panorama Trail between Nevada Fall and Glacier Point, spend time here rather than hiking through.  It’s a lovely, open setting, and some people have been known to camp here overnight.

Overhanging Rock – the other hanging rock at Glacier Point, east of Contemplation/Photographer’s Rock.

Sunnyside Bench – east of the top of Lower Yosemite Fall.  Every time I hear it called a bench I think of giants sitting on it with their legs hanging over.  Muir liked to hike up here for its unique view over the valley.  He got to it by hiking up Indian Canyon.  When I went up Indian Canyon to get on the Bench, I discovered that a gap existed that I could not get across.  I’m thinking that rockslides over the years took out the connection because I went up and down and did not see any way over.

Table Rock – on the flat area between Vernal Fall and Nevada Fall where Snow’s La Casa Nevada Hotel stood in the late 1800s.

Trail Markers 2

Signs that you wish were at the viewing points around the valley to tell you why so much sweat and toil were spent on building a trail there.

Half Dome  elevation 8842

Named by Champion Spencer of the Mariposa Battalion in 1851.  It was called “Rock of Ages” by Wm. Abrams in 1849, who said it looked like a sliced loaf of bread.  Native name:  Tissaack, or Cleft Rock.  It was also briefly known as South Dome, which was also a name that Sentinel Dome had for a brief time and causes some confusion when reading the accounts of the early pioneers.  On October 12, 1875 George Anderson, a Scotsman, climbed it by wedging single nails into cracks, pulling himself up, and attaching a line.  The dome has also been known as “Goddess of Liberty,”  “Mt. Abraham Lincoln,” and  “Spirit of the Valley.”  The front half looks sliced due to exfoliation in a zone of vertical joints.

Mist Trail

George Anderson may have built most of the current trail up to the wall of Vernal Fall.  The rest was probably built by Conway.  In the beginning, in 1857, wooden ladders were placed at the upper part of the trail to help hikers get up to Vernal Fall.  Wooden steps replaced them.  A stone walkway appeared in 1897.  Although it’s an old name, it didn’t appear on maps until 1958.

Stanford Point

Leland Stanford, one of the “Big Four” who built the Central Pacific Railroad that spanned the United States, was governor of California, and founder of Stanford University.  This name was in use by 1907.

Taft Point

The point was named by RB Marshall, of the USGS, before 1918, for Pres. William Taft.  Taft visited the park in 1909.

Yosemite Falls Trail

John Conway built it over the period of 1873 to 1877.  It was a toll road until 1885, when it was sold to the state for $1500.  The native way of getting to the top of the north rim was to climb up Indian Canyon.  Rock falls over the decades have made Indian Canyon a difficult hike.

Trail Markers

Signs you wish were at the viewing points around the valley to tell you why so much sweat and toil was spent to put a trail there.

Crocker Point  elevation 7090 feet

Crocker was one of the “Big Four” who made a lot of money on the transcontinental railroad.  Name appeared by 1907.

Dewey Point  elevation 7385 feet

Named for Admiral George Dewey who was in charge of the victory over the Spanish in the Battle of Manila Bay, 1898.  The name appeared on maps by 1907.  Dewey had aspirations for the presidency that never materialized.

Eagle Peak  elevation 7779 feet

Highest of the Three Brothers, named in 1870 by a lady hiking to this place in a party with John Muir.  She thought it was a place where eagles would rest.  Joseph LeConte called it Eagle Point.  Hutchings said it was called such because eagles hung out there.  Rev. Sutherland, from Washington DC told Hutchings that this view alone was worth his trip across country.

Four Mile Trail

Built by John Conway in 1871 for $3000.  It took eleven months and the toll was $1 to hike it.  Later the trail was rebuilt and lengthened to 4.7 miles.

Glacier Point  elevation 7214 feet

The date of the name is uncertain, but it’s probably tied to the Whitney Survey as it is a scientific name rather than a romantic or patriotic one.  The point was covered by a glacier in an earlier period, but its top remained above the ice during the more recent Tioga stage.

Mountains of Light: Seasons of Reflection in Yosemite

Mountains of Light: Seasons of Reflection in Yosemite
by Mark Liebenow, University of Nebraska Press, March 2012

You can pre-order my book now at your local bookstore or online. The publication date is March 1, but copies will be shipped to bookstores 4-6 weeks before then.

I’ve attached the cover of the book so that you can see what it looks like.

And if you’re in the Peoria area this spring, I will be doing a couple of book readings and would love to see you.

You can find more information on my website – www.markliebenow.com.

Between Seasons - Leidig Meadow

The transition period between seasons often has a pause. I used to think that autumn progressively shifted into winter, each day taking another step along the way. But sometimes there is a period when movement seems to stop, when it is neither autumn nor winter, but something on its own.

In autumn the leaves on trees turn from green to yellow and red and fall to the ground. But a few trees hold on to their lingering colors. The process seems to stop moving. It’s not Indian Summer, more of an Indian Autumn. Leidig Meadow holds an earthy brown color with tints of yellow. In the early morning the slow flowing Merced River has a skin of ice on pools along the edge that melts away in an hour. Sunlight gleams bright off granite domes and peaks as it leans south in the sky, and a medium jacket is enough to keep me warm. The blue sky is clear and deep, not yet soft with the scatter of snow crystals high in the atmosphere.

This pause can last a few days or a week. Then the transition starts again and the cold of night stretches further and further into the day with a fewer moments of warmth in the middle. The last leaves fall. The ground freezes and the warm earth colors of the plants in the meadows turn black, gray, and mauve. Snow sifts lower from the clouds and covers the valley in white, closing the last remaining trails until spring.

Mist Trail - Yosemite

How to Hike Without Looking

The sign at the bottom of the Mist Trail tells you it’s 1.5 miles to the top of Vernal Fall, 2.7 miles to the top of Nevada Fall, and 211 miles to Mount Whitney in Southern California on the John Muir Trail. Hikers start up the trail excited with a goal in mind, a place that they want to reach.

Some hikers go up the steep granite steps of the Mist Trail and stop at the top of Vernal Fall. Others go further up the canyon to Nevada Fall, eat lunch there, and come back down. Some continue on, taking the trail left for Half Dome, or go straight and follow the river into Little Yosemite Valley, or head to the right and pick up the Panorama Trail that leads to Glacier Point.

No goals are assured in the wilderness. I may run out of energy or twist an ankle before I reach my destination. Maybe the bridge above Vernal is under repair, or a storm sweeps in over the mountains, leaving me with no option but to turn around and run. Perhaps a mother bear will be hanging out by the trail with her cubs, blocking my way.

If I focus only on reaching my destination up ahead, and on not tripping on the steep and often uneven trail below my feet in order to get to get there, I will miss everything that is going on to the sides. There are sights, sounds, and scents all around. People sometimes see a bobcat here. There’s also a spring that the settlers put stones around to create a pool. At the top of Nevada there is a small dam that keeps the river from flowing down the steps I just hiked up. Illilouette Fall is only visible along one section of the trail. Did I see everything?

When I’m hiking, I see more if I don’t look for something specific.

Yosemite - A Place Apart

The wilderness is amazingly still at 8,000 feet. I’m alone, having hiked up the steep switchbacks for two hours from the valley floor to Glacier Point. A forest of sugar pine trees is behind me. In front, the view stretches a hundred miles over the gray peaks and mountains of the Sierra Nevada. No one else is here, but far below I see tiny people walking around on the valley floor. Except for a few squirrels and one Steller’s jay, no other creatures are letting their presence be known.

The breeze hums lightly as it twirls the needles on the pines, and there’s a hush as the wind flows over the mountains in the distance on its way east. Now and then, when the breeze shifts just right, the distant cascades of waterfalls reach me.

Where I sit feels like home. I couldn’t live here, of course. There’s no shelter, food, or water. And yet here I feel connected to something eternal. Is it awe of the landscape that pulls me away from my ordinary preoccupations? Is it reverence for a sacred place? Or is it respect for an ancient wilderness that has existed and looked like this for thousands of years?

Whatever it is, whenever I am here, I feel the burdens of life slide off and the surge of joy and contentment return.

Half Dome, Yosemite

To celebrate Earth Day, I share one of my photos of Half Dome. This is taken from the side that doesn't show up in photos very often.

Seeing Nature

Early one morning, I followed the Merced River in Yosemite from Happy Isles to the big medial moraine, turned right, and headed up Tenaya Canyon. At the far end of Mirror Meadow I sat on a log by Tenaya Creek. My intention was to sit by the silent river, focus on the triangular boulder reflecting off the still water, let thoughts come and go, and wait for the sun to peak over the top of Half Dome, a mile above my head. When the light was right, I’d take black and white photos of Half Dome rising above me backlit by the sun.

When I first began taking black and whites, I quickly learned that colors do not translate to black and white film. Black and white picks up contrasts. I had to train my eyes to see the natural world differently in order to notice would show up in black and white.

Any time I go into nature from the city, I also have to refocus my eyes so that I see nature on its own terms rather than in comparison to a city landscape.

Ansel Adams was convinced that a black and white photo was different than a color photo of the same scene, a difference that went beyond the colors. Perhaps he felt that it was too easy to be misled by the colors in a photograph when composing a scene. Black and white photos capture the details, the essence of what is there, the grain, the shades of the land, the texture of reality rather than the surface flash.

Story versus images. Psychologists tell us that if a scene is green, we become peaceful. If it is red, we get excited. Colors do affect us emotionally. Have you ever noticed the difference in a friend’s face when the same photo is in black and white instead of color? It’s as if a protective covering has been removed and we can see the struggles that person has gone through.

If there is more emotion to color pictures, is there more philosophy to black and whites? Or more drama? And if writing and reading are essentially black and white affairs (black ink, white paper), do avid readers see black and white photography differently than non-readers?

John Muir’s birthday is tomorrow. He will be 173. PBS is running a good overview of his life under the American Masters heading.

Boundaries

I do not make the transition between seasons easily. I get comfortable with the season I’m in, having rediscovered its unique beauty, and I don’t want to let it go. The last couple of weeks we’ve had brief snowstorms that changed the woods behind my house from brown to a white wonderland in a matter of hours. Yet the warmer days tell me that we’re on the boundary with spring, and I begin to miss the snow.

I remember one winter day in Yosemite:

I am hiking the Yosemite Falls Trail up the canyon wall. A scattering of snow has fallen to the 6000-foot level and it gets deeper the higher I go, feeling like the French Voyageurs battling harsh weather on Lake Superior. I think of when I canoed in the Boundary Waters above northern Minnesota, and I think of Sigurd Olson canoeing there, listen to the voices of nature.

Near the top, the trail is covered in ice and I have to dig my feet into the snow on the sides and waddle the last hundred yards. On top, the snow is deep and unbroken. Apparently no one else was curious or foolish enough to hike up. At 8,000 feet, everything is hushed. Whatever sounds arise are quickly muffled by the foot of snow.

My plan is to find out which trail is open--the one heading west for the top of El Capitan or the one going east to North Dome, but neither trail is anywhere to be seen. I also realize that if there is ice and deep snow here, then it’s likely that the same conditions exist over the length of both trails. I head off anyway thinking that if I can find something of one of the trails, I’ll be okay. But after ten minutes of tromping and struggling through snow that is now above my knees, I find no evidence of any trail and stop, unwilling to continue when conditions are so risky. The trails run along the rim of the valley wall and any slip could be fatal. Carefully I make my way over to the lip of Yosemite Falls and watch it flow over the edge and pour down into the valley. I also gaze at the distance, over the stark, slate-gray mountains of the Sierra Nevada, entranced by the rawness of the view.

Quietly it begins to snow and covers the tops of Half Dome, Glacier Point, and hundreds of mountain peaks that stretch to the horizon. What I’m seeing is the boundary that exists between my city life and the wilderness world, a world that exists on its own and follows its own rules. I come here for a week at a time to glimpse its otherness and to feel part of something greater than my life. Yet this view scares as much as inspires me. It’s another boundary that I face.

Night Returns to the Valley

As night returns to the valley, I watch the sky above Sentinel Meadow. It’s the day’s shining moment. Sunset spreads its rich orange and red colors over the land and all the birds and animals are in motion. Some are getting ready for bed. Others are doing a little last minute snacking, while some are just waking up and getting ready to hunt down their breakfasts.

This evening I have been looking for owls, determined to see at least one. But after waiting at several prime spots and seeing nothing, I head back to camp. Halfway across the meadow, I notice the tan shape of a coyote behind a tree, casually watching everything going on. Yet in this near darkness I’m not sure if it’s really a coyote. It could be a log, but I’m not going over to find out.

(A dandy snowstorm is moving through the Sierras today. If you’d like to see what this looks like, go online, put in “Yosemite web cam” in your computer’s search box. The Yosemite site will have four options – the Ahwahnee Meadow webcam is the clearest right now.)

Winter

Primordial turn of Earth.
Solstice.
Solitude with stone.

Light rises, then sets below the south ridge.
Cold lingers in hidden parts of the valley.
Fleeting moments of midday warmth.

Clap hands to awaken one’s ears to this season’s voice.
This aliveness.
This.

Deer nibble the ground.
Squirrels and Stellar’s jays scold us for no apparent reason.
All creatures listen
for enlightenment.

Snow covers the world, and deepens.
Coyote trots over memories of buried trails.
Glaciers deepen on the north side of mountains.
Icicles click in the breeze.


from Canticle of the Sierra Nevada

Walking With Senses Open

To really experience nature, I need to have all my senses working. Hearing is pretty much a given because I do that fairly well by default. And when I am outdoors, I listen even more carefully, wanting to hear large, carnivorous animals moving through the woods before I run into them. But when I focus on one sense, I also mute the other senses and let them drift.

I limit what my eyes see by deciding what I am going to look at ahead of time, with the result that that is all I end up seeing. For example, I’m under the trees by Camp 4 when I decide to walk into the meadows to see what the clouds are doing to Half Dome. As I move through the meadow trying to get a clear view of the dome, I fail to notice the coyote resting by a log, a ten-point buck, and a harlequin duck on the river.

Next time you’re outside, don’t focus on anything. Just open your eyes and try to see everything at the same time. Be aware of movement on the periphery of your vision. Notice the birds flying overhead without looking directly at them. It’s an unfocused looking because what we’re doing is trying to see everything at once and react to what is going on before we decide where to put our focus. I’ve found this helpful when I try to find owls in the woods behind the house, especially in the winter months when the empty branches create so many crisscross patterns that it’s hard to identify the patterns in the feathers of an owl.

Another other important sense to use outdoors is smell, and this is where your mouth comes in. When you’re outdoors, open your mouth a little and breathe in using both your nose and mouth. You should be able to flood all your smell receptors with air from both sources. Have you ever seen an animal with its mouth slightly open sniffing the air. That’s what it’s doing. I discovered this one day when I was hiking in the highlands behind Eagle Peak. It was hot and I was tired after hiking ten miles so I took a break. I happened to be breathing with my mouth open and began to pick up a variety of scents. I closed my mouth and sniffed, but the scents were faint. I opened my mouth, breathed in again, and picked up the scent of trail dust, pine trees, hot granite rock, moisture from a nearby creek, and something musky. A minute later a deer bounded out of the woods fifty feet ahead me.