Yosemite report
May. 12th, 2005 07:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jaeclecticShort version, for the average attention span: I drove to Yosemite, did some hiking (although it was too early in the season for the high-altitude hikes that I'd initially had in mind), injured myself but only slightly, and although I heard what may have been a bear a bit closer than comfort allows, I can't prove it and in any case no harm was done. Oh, and when you're planning a hike in Yosemite in the early spring, watch out for streams that cross the hiking trail, they may be deeper than they look, not to mention rather forceful. But again, no harm done, and I'm home safe now.
And now the long version, for anyone masochistic enough to want to read as much detail as I like to write ;)
I didn't get an early start on Tuesday, due to lingering PSFT-ORCL work obligations, but was actually on the road by 11:15, which was better than I'd pessimistically been counting on. I hit the park entrance 3 hours later, although it took most of another hour to get into the valley, due to a fine combination of road construction and mountain weather potpourri (a bit of rain, a bit of sun, oh now let's have some sleet, or maybe it's small hail, now back to the sunshine...) I tried and failed to check in earlier than the Yosemite Lodge's posted 5:00 check-in time, then headed off for what was supposed to be just a nice flat stroll along the valley floor.
Except that the trail I was looking for seemed to be hidden on the other side of a campground, and instead there was a nice clearly-marked trail for Yosemite Falls, so I did that instead: a gorgeous hike, and quite strenuous. Sadly (or perhaps fortunately?) I did not start early enough to delude myself that I could make it all the way to the top -- I went up about 2 miles, I guesstimate, enough to get several spectacular views of the upper falls, and at the very end to stand in the mist, about parallel with the widest part of the falls. (This two miles, or maybe it was 1-1/2 miles, took an hour and 20 minutes BTW -- we're talking some serious uphill here.)
I should note that I have no photographic evidence of this, since I was able to take exactly one picture before my camera ran out of juice. Ironically, when I bought the camera, I carefully also acquired a battery charger and a spare set of batteries, but this does one no good if one doesn't think of it while packing, does it now?
In any case, it was a great hike, although I feel a bit wistful about not being able to go all the way to the top. I then checked in to the hotel, ate hungrily, went to the store for batteries, and slept like the proverbial log.
Although my original idea had been to head for the highest altitude trails, that plan had neglected to factor in that in mid-May, the roads aren't open yet, particularly not in mid-May of a year with generous snow. Details, details. So never mind, I shall go back for higher altitude training later in the summer. Meanwhile, my guidebook had a description of a hike in the southern part of the park that sounded great: 12 miles (6 out and back), moderate in difficulty, lightly travelled, and particularly recommended in April and May for the wildflowers. So that became plan B.
The drive down to Wawona was pleasant and uneventful, and I found the trailhead with minimal flailing, although surprised that there were no other cars parked there. In fact, it turned out that I saw absolutely no one on the trail. No one. Not one person. Zero, zip, nada. I didn't actually think this was possible in a national park, at least not without a day or two of backpacking between you and the nearest campground. In any case, it was just me... and the bears.
Or at least, me and my fear of the bears. Based on, I might add, rather plentiful evidence. You know, I am far from an expert in bear psychology, but when the bear (or bears) repeatedly leave their feces in one of two extremely conspicuous places -- right smack in the middle of the trail, or elevated on a rock just next to the trail -- you kind of have to imagine the bear thinking: "This trail just reeks of those ugly, uncouth, hairless bipeds. Well, I'll show them whose scent belongs in my part of the forest!"
Of course they always recommend that you don't go hiking alone, and I generally ignore this, on my usual theory that I don't want to sit at home and wait for death. I occasionally get spooked at being by myself out there, but usually after a while you run into some other people, which can be comforting rather than annoying at such a moment. But not this time.
Despite the aforementioned evidence, I did not actually see any bears (at least, not until the drive back, when I saw one in the valley being chased by a bunch of camera-wielding tourists), however, I think I may have heard one. I was coming down the trail towards a clump of brush, maybe 30 ft along, when this noise came from behind the shrubbery. A rather loud, reverberant sound, halfway between a cough and a bark. I mean, it could have been something harmless. A bird vigorously flapping its wings, a small rodent rustling in the underbrush, one of those things that always seems to be more noise than a small creature can possibly generate, and then you laugh at yourself when you see what it really was. Or, it could have been the voice of a very large mammal.
I froze on the trail and listened for several minutes to the absolute dead silence that followed. And then started moving around a bit on the trail, without actually going forward, just to see if whatever it was would react. And then picked up a stick because having something in my hand made me feel better.
There was absolutely no further noise, nor any motion that I could detect.
I eventually thought: "Well, I'm already more than 3 miles from anywhere, if a bear wants to stalk me, it hardly matters if I go on or head back." So I trusted that the (theoretical, unproven) bear was just as interested in avoiding uncouth hairless bipeds as I was eager to avoid it, and I went on.
Sadly, although the moment of greatest alarm, that was not the major mishap of the day. The next part of the trail obviously hadn't been cleaned up for the season yet, and had a number of trees fallen across it. Some of these were low enough to the ground that I could just scoot over them on my butt, an inelegant but low-risk method. Others, however, were a bit trickier. I was scrambling over one that had some stubs of side branches placed where they could serve as steps, and my foot slipped -- I didn't actually fall, my heel just slid down and wrenched a muscle in my calf. Ow, ow, ow.
I didn't really want to head back, and convinced myself I might be able to walk it off. It actually did get slightly better after a few moments, but not completely. And after about 15 or 20 minutes (and having gracelessly levered myself over another fallen tree), I saw ahead on the trail that there were two more fallen trees, neither looking like I could get over them without actual climbing. At which point, I said to me: "This is not clever. I'm already hurt, I've got at least 4 miles to walk back to the car, it's probably too late to stop while I'm ahead but I could try not getting further behind."
So I turned around, feeling very frustrated at not having reached my planned destination, an overlook just past the 6 mile point. In retrospect, I was probably only about a mile from there, but I'm sure it was the better decision nonetheless. By the time I got back to my car, more than 5 hours after heading out, I was pretty tired, and in addition to my left calf aching, I'd developed a sore right ankle and a considerable blister on my right heel -- I hardly knew which foot to limp on.
The main lessons of this day? When the guidebook says the trail is "isolated and infrequently travelled", that is not necessarily a good thing. And after a strenuous and stressful day of hiking, it would be really great if one were staying at a place that had a hot tub. I shall have to look into that for next time.
When I got up today, my calf was feeling much better (although still twinging on uphill steps), so I did go for another hike -- but I endeavored to be extremely sensible, choosing a flat, easy loop around the valley floor -- not a lot of hikers on the trail, but also never far from a road. About half way into the 6.5 mile loop, I came to a stream that was a bit too wide to jump across -- perhaps a very tall, long-legged, and athletic person could have hopped from rock to rock, but even on a good day I would have had difficulty, and given that I still had one sore calf and the other sore ankle, it was not going to happen. But I really didn't want to turn back (3 days in a row of turning back! argh!) so I just waded through and proceeded with wet feet. No big deal.
Then, only a mile and a half or so from the end, I came to another stream, a bit wider even. I actually pulled out the trail map to be quite sure I was on the right track, and yes, I could see that there were a couple of streams that crossed the trail -- which by summer are probably a mere trickle of water, not even worth mentioning in the guidebook. Well, what the heck, my feet were already wet, so I just plowed onward.
And then come to the next stream. A little bit wider, and possibly deeper. Maybe even knee deep. At this point I start thinking about all those warnings about fast currents taking foolish waders unaware. But dammit, I want to finish my hike. I can see the trail continuing, right over there! So I wade on in, discovering that, yes, the current is quite forceful, the rocks are rather slippery, and oh dear, it's not just knee deep, more like thigh deep. But I get across.
And then come to a third stream. I pull out the map again, and oh yes, I had missed the fact that there were actually three streams to cross on this stretch of trail. And this one is twice as wide (maybe 10 feet across), and at least as deep as the previous. I look around for a way to cut back out to the road instead, but the surrounding area is overgrown and criss-crossed with feeder streams. And I don't want to go back, not after all this! and it can't be more than another 1/2 mile back to my car once I get across...
So I found a stick to use as a brace, and waded through icy, rushing, thigh-high water, cursing myself for an idiot as the current almost pulled the stick from my hand. And then laughed when I got to the other side, dretched from the crotch down.
Fortunately, it really was only a short distance to the car, and I had dry clothes readily available.
Although I had been toying with the idea of stopping at one of the sequoia groves on my way out, since my hiking boots were drenched, and I'd pretty much pressed my luck already as far as risking aggravating my minor injury, I decided to head on back. So here I am.
I do need to go unpack all of those soggy clothes, and then perhaps take a hot bath...
And now the long version, for anyone masochistic enough to want to read as much detail as I like to write ;)
I didn't get an early start on Tuesday, due to lingering PSFT-ORCL work obligations, but was actually on the road by 11:15, which was better than I'd pessimistically been counting on. I hit the park entrance 3 hours later, although it took most of another hour to get into the valley, due to a fine combination of road construction and mountain weather potpourri (a bit of rain, a bit of sun, oh now let's have some sleet, or maybe it's small hail, now back to the sunshine...) I tried and failed to check in earlier than the Yosemite Lodge's posted 5:00 check-in time, then headed off for what was supposed to be just a nice flat stroll along the valley floor.
Except that the trail I was looking for seemed to be hidden on the other side of a campground, and instead there was a nice clearly-marked trail for Yosemite Falls, so I did that instead: a gorgeous hike, and quite strenuous. Sadly (or perhaps fortunately?) I did not start early enough to delude myself that I could make it all the way to the top -- I went up about 2 miles, I guesstimate, enough to get several spectacular views of the upper falls, and at the very end to stand in the mist, about parallel with the widest part of the falls. (This two miles, or maybe it was 1-1/2 miles, took an hour and 20 minutes BTW -- we're talking some serious uphill here.)
I should note that I have no photographic evidence of this, since I was able to take exactly one picture before my camera ran out of juice. Ironically, when I bought the camera, I carefully also acquired a battery charger and a spare set of batteries, but this does one no good if one doesn't think of it while packing, does it now?
In any case, it was a great hike, although I feel a bit wistful about not being able to go all the way to the top. I then checked in to the hotel, ate hungrily, went to the store for batteries, and slept like the proverbial log.
Although my original idea had been to head for the highest altitude trails, that plan had neglected to factor in that in mid-May, the roads aren't open yet, particularly not in mid-May of a year with generous snow. Details, details. So never mind, I shall go back for higher altitude training later in the summer. Meanwhile, my guidebook had a description of a hike in the southern part of the park that sounded great: 12 miles (6 out and back), moderate in difficulty, lightly travelled, and particularly recommended in April and May for the wildflowers. So that became plan B.
The drive down to Wawona was pleasant and uneventful, and I found the trailhead with minimal flailing, although surprised that there were no other cars parked there. In fact, it turned out that I saw absolutely no one on the trail. No one. Not one person. Zero, zip, nada. I didn't actually think this was possible in a national park, at least not without a day or two of backpacking between you and the nearest campground. In any case, it was just me... and the bears.
Or at least, me and my fear of the bears. Based on, I might add, rather plentiful evidence. You know, I am far from an expert in bear psychology, but when the bear (or bears) repeatedly leave their feces in one of two extremely conspicuous places -- right smack in the middle of the trail, or elevated on a rock just next to the trail -- you kind of have to imagine the bear thinking: "This trail just reeks of those ugly, uncouth, hairless bipeds. Well, I'll show them whose scent belongs in my part of the forest!"
Of course they always recommend that you don't go hiking alone, and I generally ignore this, on my usual theory that I don't want to sit at home and wait for death. I occasionally get spooked at being by myself out there, but usually after a while you run into some other people, which can be comforting rather than annoying at such a moment. But not this time.
Despite the aforementioned evidence, I did not actually see any bears (at least, not until the drive back, when I saw one in the valley being chased by a bunch of camera-wielding tourists), however, I think I may have heard one. I was coming down the trail towards a clump of brush, maybe 30 ft along, when this noise came from behind the shrubbery. A rather loud, reverberant sound, halfway between a cough and a bark. I mean, it could have been something harmless. A bird vigorously flapping its wings, a small rodent rustling in the underbrush, one of those things that always seems to be more noise than a small creature can possibly generate, and then you laugh at yourself when you see what it really was. Or, it could have been the voice of a very large mammal.
I froze on the trail and listened for several minutes to the absolute dead silence that followed. And then started moving around a bit on the trail, without actually going forward, just to see if whatever it was would react. And then picked up a stick because having something in my hand made me feel better.
There was absolutely no further noise, nor any motion that I could detect.
I eventually thought: "Well, I'm already more than 3 miles from anywhere, if a bear wants to stalk me, it hardly matters if I go on or head back." So I trusted that the (theoretical, unproven) bear was just as interested in avoiding uncouth hairless bipeds as I was eager to avoid it, and I went on.
Sadly, although the moment of greatest alarm, that was not the major mishap of the day. The next part of the trail obviously hadn't been cleaned up for the season yet, and had a number of trees fallen across it. Some of these were low enough to the ground that I could just scoot over them on my butt, an inelegant but low-risk method. Others, however, were a bit trickier. I was scrambling over one that had some stubs of side branches placed where they could serve as steps, and my foot slipped -- I didn't actually fall, my heel just slid down and wrenched a muscle in my calf. Ow, ow, ow.
I didn't really want to head back, and convinced myself I might be able to walk it off. It actually did get slightly better after a few moments, but not completely. And after about 15 or 20 minutes (and having gracelessly levered myself over another fallen tree), I saw ahead on the trail that there were two more fallen trees, neither looking like I could get over them without actual climbing. At which point, I said to me: "This is not clever. I'm already hurt, I've got at least 4 miles to walk back to the car, it's probably too late to stop while I'm ahead but I could try not getting further behind."
So I turned around, feeling very frustrated at not having reached my planned destination, an overlook just past the 6 mile point. In retrospect, I was probably only about a mile from there, but I'm sure it was the better decision nonetheless. By the time I got back to my car, more than 5 hours after heading out, I was pretty tired, and in addition to my left calf aching, I'd developed a sore right ankle and a considerable blister on my right heel -- I hardly knew which foot to limp on.
The main lessons of this day? When the guidebook says the trail is "isolated and infrequently travelled", that is not necessarily a good thing. And after a strenuous and stressful day of hiking, it would be really great if one were staying at a place that had a hot tub. I shall have to look into that for next time.
When I got up today, my calf was feeling much better (although still twinging on uphill steps), so I did go for another hike -- but I endeavored to be extremely sensible, choosing a flat, easy loop around the valley floor -- not a lot of hikers on the trail, but also never far from a road. About half way into the 6.5 mile loop, I came to a stream that was a bit too wide to jump across -- perhaps a very tall, long-legged, and athletic person could have hopped from rock to rock, but even on a good day I would have had difficulty, and given that I still had one sore calf and the other sore ankle, it was not going to happen. But I really didn't want to turn back (3 days in a row of turning back! argh!) so I just waded through and proceeded with wet feet. No big deal.
Then, only a mile and a half or so from the end, I came to another stream, a bit wider even. I actually pulled out the trail map to be quite sure I was on the right track, and yes, I could see that there were a couple of streams that crossed the trail -- which by summer are probably a mere trickle of water, not even worth mentioning in the guidebook. Well, what the heck, my feet were already wet, so I just plowed onward.
And then come to the next stream. A little bit wider, and possibly deeper. Maybe even knee deep. At this point I start thinking about all those warnings about fast currents taking foolish waders unaware. But dammit, I want to finish my hike. I can see the trail continuing, right over there! So I wade on in, discovering that, yes, the current is quite forceful, the rocks are rather slippery, and oh dear, it's not just knee deep, more like thigh deep. But I get across.
And then come to a third stream. I pull out the map again, and oh yes, I had missed the fact that there were actually three streams to cross on this stretch of trail. And this one is twice as wide (maybe 10 feet across), and at least as deep as the previous. I look around for a way to cut back out to the road instead, but the surrounding area is overgrown and criss-crossed with feeder streams. And I don't want to go back, not after all this! and it can't be more than another 1/2 mile back to my car once I get across...
So I found a stick to use as a brace, and waded through icy, rushing, thigh-high water, cursing myself for an idiot as the current almost pulled the stick from my hand. And then laughed when I got to the other side, dretched from the crotch down.
Fortunately, it really was only a short distance to the car, and I had dry clothes readily available.
Although I had been toying with the idea of stopping at one of the sequoia groves on my way out, since my hiking boots were drenched, and I'd pretty much pressed my luck already as far as risking aggravating my minor injury, I decided to head on back. So here I am.
I do need to go unpack all of those soggy clothes, and then perhaps take a hot bath...
