Day 2: Road to Sunrise

"Sunshine all the time makes a desert." - Arab Proverb.

The Yosemite High Country waits in the distance.

Day 2: Monday, July 20, 2015


10.4 Miles


Little Yosemite Valley Campground to Sunrise High Sierra Camp

Nick, Uncle Jim and I awake at first light. We're in the Little Yosemite Valley, and even though a Wilderness Permit was required for us to stay here, we're definitely not in the back country yet. Sitting at around 6200 feet, LYV has a campground of sorts, complete with a compost toilet raised on stilts. You add a handful of sawdust after you've done your business, and allow nature to create a compost that'll later be used to replenish forest soil. Besides the fact that you have to pack your stuff in, pack your trash out, and filter water from the nearby Merced River, you don't feel very far away from the bustling Yosemite Valley 4.3 miles behind.

Today, the John Muir Trail takes us north toward Cathedral Pass and Tuolumne Meadows. The first part of the hike goes on a flat track for approximately half a mile before we start climbing toward the cutoff trail to Half Dome. We'll reach the junction and stay on the John Muir Trail, which through this area is known as the Sunrise Trail. We'll continue to climb as we skirt and jump across Sunrise Creek. The trail then jacks up the side of a steep ridge to nearly 10,000 feet to reach a no-name pass many struggle with on their first days of the hike. From that high point, the trail descends toward the Long Meadow, and Sunrise High Sierra Camp. It then cuts straight through the meadow before ascending toward Columbia Finger and Cathedral Pass. Our plan is to camp at one of the Cathedral Lakes, but we'll only make it as far as Sunrise High Sierra Camp.

Sam has a permit to join us again in about ten days. He'll hike over Taboose Pass and link with the JMT to Mt. Whitney to join us for the last seven days of the trip. We wake him up to say goodbye, and he groggily wishes us well through the wall of his tent.  His plan is to wake up and bag Half Dome today before heading back into the Valley to drive back home, since he and Jim were prevented by the weather yesterday.

Speaking of weather. Of all of the potential issues I thought we'd have to deal with in the first few days of this trip, I never considered how Dolores, a tropical storm in the Eastern Pacific Ocean, would cause us so much trouble. As the storm blew through the Pacific toward Mexico in the days prior to our hike, it sucked water off the warm seas to the south, and once it made landfall with North America in Baja, bands of heavy moisture and super cell thunderstorms were sent creeping and churning up the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada. Directly in our path. I know California is having a drought, but I lament the timing of Dolores' arrival.

Lucky for Nick and I, we have something of an expert in toe. Uncle Jim is a self-professed weather guru, and his extensive knowledge and uncanny ability to predict the day's weather outcomes based on cloud patterns will be a boon to us, and any other hikers we come across for the next five days. He's also a senior member of the Ventura County Sierra Club, and quickly adopt their "Fun First, Safety Second" motto. I converse with him about the weather constantly, as well as terrain, gear and backpacking, soaking up as much as I can about how the sun, the heat, the rising moisture, and mountains create thunderstorms. "The mountains make their own weather" will become a tired mantra for the entire trip; tired but true. We're happy to defer to Uncle Jim's knowledge and predictions, and when he suggested we hike through the early morning and hit camp by the mid-afternoon to avoid the first of Dolores' kisses, we decided it was our most fun and safest course of action.

My appetite woes continue. Besides a Starbucks Via latte that was WAY too sweet because I couldn't add enough water, to dilute it, I don't even bother attempting to eat breakfast. Nick and Jim voice their concerns and offer snacks and food, which I frustratingly dismiss. I give in only somewhat and try to eat a small pastry.

The early part of the hike is pleasant. The morning air is nice and cool in the mountains, and we climb up switchbacks through lodge pole pine forest up toward the cutoff that takes Half Dome hikers toward the saddle. As we climb through the chill morning, trail runners in light gear catch us up, as they make for the summit before the crowds. We stay on the JMT/ Sunrise Trail, which takes us through some very interesting terrain. This is a small section of the area of forest that was burnt out by the wild fire back in September 2014. The area is a mess of burnt out and downed trees, and just about anything that wasn't killed in the fire didn't seem to have survived the aftermath either.

We're mobbed by mosquitos when we stop to filter some water at Sunrise Creek. As the cold water follows gravity through my Platypus 2 Liter Gravityworks Filter, I gaze at shafts of the still-rising sun as they beam through the browned and blackened area of the fire zone, dotted here and there with green, and brightly colored wildflowers near the water. A huge bumble bee wooed by the purples and oranges works to collect gold from the flowers as if his life truly depended upon it. It doesn't take long for life to return, but it will be a long while before stands of mighty trees return to mask the sun and shade the forest floor.

As we continue hiking, I notice all of the signs refer to our trail as the Sunrise Trail. Nothing in my maps, plans or any journals we read particularly mentioned this nuance, and I start to question whether we'd stayed on the JMT amongst the many cutoffs and junctions in this area of Yosemite, and me being the planner in the group, I begin to hope we happen upon anyone who can confirm or set us straight. We come across two gracefully aged women, and I confess I may've sounded frantic when I ask them whether we're on the JMT. They inform me we're in the right place, and my anxiety leads to a knee-jerk "are you sure?" without me thinking twice about how rude it must've come off. They move on down the JMT, and we stop to take a few pictures of the sick views. 

We get our first glimpse of Yosemite's spectacular High Country. We gaze across the Little Yosemite Valley, which is now tucked below us like a small ravine, to the wall of sculpted granite on the far side. A jagged row of majestic peaks stand guard over the valley, their snow covered zeniths sparkling in the late-morning sun. Canonized geologic history tells us that a massive glacier sat atop this range, and receded along with the last major Ice Age, leaving behind a marvelous landscape dotted with  countless valleys, balds, peaks, ravines, boulders and glacial moraines. I especially marvel at the pine trees that  grow at extreme altitude where long ago a seed must've managed to find a small patch of soil on the side of a cliff, clinging to bare rock in a place where it would face zero competition if it could just survive. I dub these trees "the Victors."

From here the hike turns brutal for me. I'm drinking water, and snacking here and there when I can, but as we climb toward the 10,000 foot high point for the day, I slowly admit to myself that I'm experiencing what is known in backpacking parlance as a "bonk": no energy, no emotional or moral lift, and certainly no fun. I grimace under the weight of my pack as we climb, constantly making adjustments to the straps to try to find a more comfortable fit, breaking at almost every switchback. I stop every hundred yards or so, and continue on in that manner for the next hour. I'm more worried than I am uncomfortable, and my anxiety continues to rise over my inability to take in minerals and calories. Not to mention the trail is a little dull and typical through here without much to look at as we wind up and through light forest. 

We find a nice sunny spot to lunch about halfway up the climb. I open up my bear canister to the smell of yet another mistake. I packed a snack food called Gardetto's in zip top bags, and the powdered onion, garlic and mustard it's seasoned with has mixed with my second mistake, the moisture from the avocado, and has now stunk up my bear can to the point where one whiff of it and any trace of appetite I may have buggers off. The scent is absorbed into every single thing in my canister, so much so that as I place ANY food into my mouth, I catch a whiff of stale Gardetto's and mildew and have to fight off a gag reflex. I already wasn't hungry this makes it nearly impossible to eat. Even still, I manage to force down an entire pouch of beef jerky that stayed sealed from the gross smell, and proudly show it off to Nick and Jim. I finish with a few Starbursts, which Uncle Jim points out don't confer any lasting nutrients or energy. Empty calories but at least I've got salt and sugar in my system now. 

I continue to bonk out as we hike higher and higher. Thus far, Nick and I have been hiking ahead and waiting for Jim to catch up with us, as his slow and steady pace suits him better than our run and rest method. He ends up passing me at one point, offering me the remainder of his protein and energy rich nut mix with dried dates. I happily accept it and munch on the sweet and salty mixture, even if I'm not hungry at all, and soon I pass him again and start catching up with Nick. Uncle Jim jokes that they shouldn't feed me anything but nuts for the rest of the trip. He's right it's the perfect trail food. More on that in coming posts. 

Near the top of the climb as I hike alone, Jim behind and Nick somewhere up ahead, I happen upon a family of a mother and her two teenage daughters. We chat briefly exchanging the usual questions: "where ya from," "where ya headed," etc. As it turns out, she'd lived in New York City on the Upper East Side, and started asking me about restaurants she used to go to. I must admit it was quite surreal, as I didn't anticipate I'd have any meaningful conversations with anyone from NYC on this hike. Little did I know I'd meet another New Yorker in a few days who will become a great friend beyond the trail.

I get a high as I reach the top of the climb, and spot Nick's bright blue flannel shirt up ahead. I let out a hoot! and he responds with a oowewwww! There's lots of joyful and exhilarating hooting and hollering on backpacking trips in the high Sierra if you like, its awesome. We high five each other at the top and sit in the shade to wait for Uncle Jim. We're still under tree-line even though they've thinned out quite a bit up here. The sun is still shining and I ignorantly proclaim that we lucked out, and the weather must've turned. Jim joins us a half hour later and disagrees with me as he looks up at the clouds. Once he's had his way with my bubble, he points his needle to a cloud structure ahead of us he names cumulonimbus, which looks like a towering pinnacle of moisture rising high into the sky. He explains that as the hot summer sun evaporates yesterday's rain, the moisture rises and condenses and heats until... *POP! The sky erupts in rain and electricity for a few hours. Even if we can't see it, the moisture all around us is boiling and searching the sky for that central point, moving towards it. Before long grey cloud cover will sweep in and the rain will come after.

We'll deal with this over the next several days, and for the entire JMT, as this is a typical pattern for high elevation weather. When there's a 30% chance of thunderstorms, those of us in the mountains at higher elevations are unfortunately 100% of the 30%!

Needless to say we don't linger for very long. By now I'm feeling mightily exhausted, and I start to lobby for an early stop at Sunrise High Sierra Camp. My reasons are plain: I'm truly not doing well physically, and I have to plan for the next eighteen days, so another restful afternoon to acclimate and try to eat is what I need, not a late afternoon climb. I'm not prepared for that regiment yet.  Since we have short mileage to Tuolumne Meadows tomorrow anyways, it won't affect our schedule in any way if we stop short today and avoid an afternoon climb over Cathedral Pass. Jim sees the reason, and Nick reluctantly agrees, not out of insensitivity, but more out of an excited eagerness to get into the true mountain wilderness, away from the more heavily travelled areas of the JMT in and around Yosemite. I know he's eager and I'm grateful for his patience and flexibility in those first days. 

Now we're descending in ever-thicker forest. Through the trees we spot small grassy meadows on the sides of the valley as we hike down, and the purple wildflowers dazzle even under the newly darkened canopy of foreboding clouds rushing over to meet us. After we puzzle our way over, around and under a massive downed tree, we round a corner to find a backcountry emergency waiting for us. One of the women we met a while back who kindly told me the Sunrise Trail is the JMT was waiting with a young man, maybe nineteen years old, who laid on his back with his feet propped up on a rock in front of him.

His name is Adrian, and he's convinced himself he's suffering from altitude sickness. We tell the woman to go on and meet her group and to send help from the High Sierra Camp, and agree to wait with Adrian until his group catches up. Uncle Jim questions him on his habits and symptoms and gives him a salt pill: it seems obvious Adrian is a little delusional from dehydration, but not altitude sickness. He insists that he knows how it feels, claiming he got it as he hiked down from Mt. Whitney after completing the entire JMT last year in 2014. When I ask him how much water he's had he simply replies, "I've had plenty of water." I smirk and Nick shakes his head as if to agree with me as my smirk says 'dumbass!' Meanwhile, we can each recite to you precisely how many liters we've had thus far today. The sky overhead continues to darken, and I begin to give Nick some more pressing and worried looks that say 'enough of this lets get the hell outta here': I want to reach camp and set up before the sky pops and real estate may be harder to come by as the day wains. 

From above comes hiking the mother who I chatted with about NYC and her two daughters. As she approaches she sarcastically announces, "my oldest son, huh?" Turns out Adrian is the eldest in her brood. This dude is a living cautionary tale for us. He went too far ahead of his group, didn't drink enough water or eat enough salt, and found himself in pretty dire straights. As Uncle Jim pointed out, you can drink all the water you want, but without salt and other essential minerals, your body won't retain a single drop of it. I make note of his mistakes, we update his mom on the aid Jim rendered thus far and advise them to rest, and we continue on toward Sunrise High Sierra Camp. At the bottom of the descent the JMT cuts directly into Long Meadow. We meet an attendant from the High Sierra Camp carrying two jugs of water. We tell him where Adrian is located and we move on to the entrance to the camp area just fifty yards or so off the trail to the west. 

Sunrise High Sierra Camp is a very rustic but charming waypoint set up in the mountains. Some folks ride horses up, others hike up. There's a full-time staff in the summertime, with a full galley and kitchen with hot meals, showers and compost toilets, and even tent cabins you can reserve that come with a stove and a bundle of wood to warm you up. Most of the services are reserved for those in the tent cabins and those residing at the camp, not for lowly backpackers like us. Rangers guide groups on backpacking trips through the mountains in Yosemtie and frequently make use of the High Sierra Camps on their loops. We find a primo spot for all three of our tents on the edge of the camping area, Long Meadow spread out below us, and the rolling balds of the high country marching off into the distance. It's gorgeous. Nick has developed an affinity for choosing prime campsites early on.



The sun is still shining, but not for long. These storms happen so suddenly and with such fury that its quite terrifying. Within a few breaths, the sky turns black and the rain comes hard. We all scramble for our little nylon tents, and again, communication is impossible despite our close proximity. My tent has a high bathtub floor and a rain fly firmly guyed out, but the powerful rain turns to a mixture of hail that bounces and splashes off the ground underneath my rainfly and onto the walls of my tenant that aren't waterproofed. I take on water and use my pack towel to dry up any drops and condensation, but not before water gets into my Kindle, a luxury item I brought along to read books that's now inalterably ruined. This time the rain lasts almost thirty minutes, and it floods the camp as hikers scramble in to settle down for the night from the north and the south. It's a demoralizing and dispiriting amount of rain, flooding out the camp and causing the small streams to swell and flash flood.



When we deem it safe come out I find I've made another huge mistake. I left my bear canister upright in the storm, instead of upside down like Nick did, and in this way I discovered that the lid is not waterproofed. The contents of the bear canister are now soaked and almost universally compromised. Anything not in a zip top bag absorbs the water, so now I have a smelly, heavy and wet supply of food that runs the risk of turning to mildew overnight. Awesome.



While Nick tries to manage an issue with the pitch on one side of his tent, Uncle Jim and I decide to explore the camp a bit. We follow the path that takes us past the tent cabins to find the two women who helped us and Adrian with their two daughters sitting out front of the one nearest the camp use trail. They're assessing the weather. I offer Uncle Jim's expertise and inquire about the accommodations; they inform us they had a reservation and that there's no vacancy. But she hooks us up with a tip that may very well have saved my JMT trip: if the chef has enough food, there's a rumor she'll let us buy dinner. We race (literally run) over to the galley and kitchen and ask the dude at the desk if we can buy dinner, he looks confused by our sense of urgency but goes back and asks the kitchen and they said yes! As we run back to the tents to grab our money and tell Nick the great news the rain returns, but we refuse to miss out on the opportunity to get some real food, even if its only been two days I really need it. Uncle Jim covers his ears as he runs ahead of me to protect his eardrums in case lightening strikes nearby. Just the sound blast from thunder can blow out your hearing. Acknowledging the abundance of wisdom there is in caution at these altitudes, I follow his lead.



Sunrise is kind of like a small town, its quite crowded with campers and folks using the tent cabins. And the talk of the town today is Adrian and his family. Everybody heard about what happened when help was sent to find him. Uncle Jim and I happen across them as they appear to be packing up their gear to hike onward. He suggestively inquires as to why they're leaving when Adrian should be resting in light of the fact that he was on his back only two hours ago. Not to mention continuing to hike in the storm is potentially dangerous, but they insist they're okay to make it to Cathedral Lake. We wish them the best, but shake our heads along with the rest of the folks at camp as they hike off in the rain through the meadow.



We do our best to clean up and dry out our gear after the rain ceases a bit. At 5:30PM, its time for us lucky ones to head for the cafeteria for hot drinks before dinner. I grab myself some tea, and Jim, Nick and I settle in at one of the tables in the cozy kitchen tent with a bunch of nice people from all walks of life all over the country. Some are JMT hikers, some are just staying at Sunrise, and still more are on a guided loop backpacking trip with a Ranger named Mike Davien. Before dinner Ranger Mike gives a thoughtful seminar on wilderness history, practice and preservation, and he throws in a few lighthearted stories and tales to invoke caution.



And then there was dinner. And oh what a dinner. Homemade vegetable soup with crusts of good bread and pads of butter, followed by a nice salad would've been enough to rejuvenate me. Then they served us sesame garlic chicken breasts with wild onion and mushroom, rice, and sautéed green beans. I wolf down firsts and get seconds of anything I can. Besides the goodness of eating a real hot meal in this rain, I'm grateful for the energy I know I'm getting. To close it out, huge pieces of chocolate cake. There's a little extra dessert, and after dinner Ranger Mike commissions me to distribute the extra pieces amongst a few water-logged hikers he saw arriving late to camp in the early evening rain that slammed Cathedral Pass to the north.



I know we're here to get into the wilderness, but on this second day of the JMT, I'm happy to be warm and inside, in good company, hearing stories and advice from an experienced ranger, eating real food, and laughing and smiling with my brother and my uncle, and some new friends, if only for now. This is what I came up here for, and much of the anxiety I've felt all day slips away. It was just one of the first in a series of unforgettable moments we'd share together. There won't be any campfires tonight, as the rain is slated to go off and on throughout. At our campsite, Nick and I stand at the edge of the rock formation the camp sits upon watching the distant rows of peaks and balds fade and darken into a featureless horizon on the edge of sight. As the rain moves off to the distance, faint rainbows appear and disappear in brief moments in time.

My wet bear canister doesn't faze me, since tomorrow we hike to Tuolumne Meadows and our first resupply. As soon as its dark, we all settle in for the night and drift off to sleep.

Day 1: Where the Sidewalk Ends

"It was like lying in a great solemn cathedral, far vaster and more beautiful than any built by the hand of man." -President Theodore Roosevelt, on the Yosemite Valley

Nevada Falls is a trickle of its former self by mid-July

Day 1: Sunday, July 19, 2015

4.3 Miles

Happy Isles to Little Yosemite Valley Campground

My alarm sounds at 5:00AM, as if I need it. I've been awake for an hour, and now the nervous excitement hits a fevered pitch. I grapple with my emotions, transitioning between fear, anxiety, excitement, and that very special feeling one only gets when a lifelong dream materializes and is actually realized. I try to ride the high of our labors coming to long-anticipated fruition, but it doesn't help. I'm a nervous wreck, with no appetite or any desire to drink water and hydrate, which I know I'll be paying for in a few short hours.

We prepared everything last night, so this morning its into the cars and back into the Yosemite Valley without any stops. Jim had cell service at LYV and confirmed his location for us. There's no traffic on Highway 140 at this hour, not even anywhere open to grab a cup of coffee. We zip into the Curry Village parking lot in about 30 minutes. Nick, Sam and I dawn our full packs and Nick and I immediately exchange a look that says it all: 20 days with this thing on, what the hell were we thinking?! I stuff a banana into the top-lid of my pack for later and commence a previously scheduled bombardment of Hostess crumb donuts into my mouth. I'm so nervous about starting this hike, it takes every ounce of will I have to avoid gagging and puking them up. A sour stomach that prevents me from eating food and drinking water can force me to quit the trail after just a few days by causing a host of maladies. I try not to dwell on it.  

The rising sun strikes the peaks surrounding the valley and we're steeped in their shadows as we make our way to the John Muir Trail trailhead at Happy Isles. I glance up periodically at Half Dome, it's character changing at every angle, becoming drastically more impressive as we approach the trailhead that rests down upon it's skirt. As we pass Upper Pines Campground we walk right by the campsite we camped at as a family in 1991: there's a boulder field, and a small creek bed along the road Nick and I used to play in with our action figures. I stop and gaze at that spot, momentarily drunk on the nostalgia, but looking back up at Half Dome I snap out of it, reminded we aren't here for kid stuff this time. I shift the weight of my newly acquainted pack and move on down the road toward the trailhead.

We arrive at the iconic sign, it's been relocated at least a few times due to floods and other natural events at Happy Isles causing miniscule alterations in the length of the John Muir Trail. The last time I was here I was 9 years old. The moment is overwhelmingly surreal and enormous.


Of course we have to take the required pictures, prove we were there and that this really, actually happened. Two more thru-hikers arrive at the same time and ask mom to snap their picture. They're older gentlemen from Newport Beach named Matt and Jim. Jim (not to be confused with our Uncle Jim, who's waiting at LYV) is a BIG BOY, dwarfed only by Matt's giant red external frame backpack that would earn him the trail name of 'Big Red' later on. As you might guess, we'll cross their path again over the next several days. 

After one last tearful embrace with the woman who carried us, gave us life, and drove me up here we finally turn our backs on civilized life, and take the first steps on the John Muir Trail. Cue the excited exclamations: 'can you believe it?!' 'We're on the JMT!' Etc. We're immediately served a harsh and rude awakening. The trail climbs dramatically out of the Yosemite Valley, going nearly at a forty five degree angle for a mile and a half over paved trail (weird) before crossing Vernal Falls. From there, the JMT switchbacks up up up to Clark Point where we get our first view of Nevada Falls. By now, mid-July, the flow is just a trickle. We'll then head straight for the falls, and go another half mile or so beyond to the Little Yosemite Valley Campground. A short but difficult day.  

Remember that banana I stuffed in my top lid? Well it got crushed and squished out a little into my pack almost right away. I experience the first of many spikes of anxiety: is a bear going to come after this tonight? Will rodents chew through and destroy my lid? I choke down the banana along with the bitter self-confession that I made a possibly dangerous mistake before we even set foot on the JMT. I'm immediately nauseous, my body aggressively reminding me that it doesn't want me eating. I'm painfully aware that my head is also beginning to hurt. The specter of altitude sickness showed up quickly.  

I realize I've got to make my first tough decision. If I'm having difficulty today, I have no business going another couple thousand feet up Half Dome. I know that I should hang at camp at LYV and acclimate myself instead, learn to exist at this altitude. The climb up to Half Dome will bring us up another 2000 feet. Yikes. I begin to wonder how I'm going to tell Nick I'm not going to be able to climb Half Dome with him. We hit Nevada Falls and take a packs-off break; that is, we take off our packs and rest a while. Some breaks we'll find places to sit to take the packs 'weight off our bodies, since its a commitment to take everything off. Depends entirely on the day and on the spot.

I have cell service, so I text the in-laws, Phoebe and Mom. I slap on sun block for the first time, which will become a morning ritual every single day for the next eighteen days. Little did I know my sun screen ritual would annoy my brother so much. We meet a large family hiking the JMT, they've already been at it for several days since their permit required them to start almost 40 miles away. They also wanted to acclimate to the altitude before getting into the high country, a preparatory step Nick and I didn't have the luxury or the desire to work into our hike. We're strict traditionalists, and wanted to do the whole JMT start to finish.
  

LYV is only a short hike beyond Nevada Falls. We actually passed the cut off for the campground without realizing it, but without going too far we find Jim in a beautiful shaded spot with plenty of room for all of us to set up. As I pitch my tent I break the news to the group that I'm skipping Half Dome. Nick says he's staying with me: we're hiking the JMT together. Sam and Jim are going for it, even though it's 11:30AM, and the weather is calling for thunderstorms promptly at 1:00PM. You get up Half Dome on steel cables embedded in the mountain, not the place to be in an electric storm. Sam and Jim head out with their slack packs on, and Nick and I settle into our REI camp chairs for the first time, exchanging stories while I try to eat a bagel with an avocado that's turned my bear canister into a greenhouse. Another mistake!

Time passes slowly on, when Nick looks up at me and asks, 'what time is it?' I look down at my watch and answer, '1 o'clock.' As if to second my response, and remind us of the forecasted weather report, the sky suddenly blows as if the answer KABOOOMDOOOOMBOOOOMDOOOOM, and the rain comes in pelting sheets. Nick and I run for our tents, and even though we're only ten or so yards apart, we can't hear each other's shouts over the din. But we're both alright.

Once the worst is over, we emerge with our rain pants and rain jackets on. Both of us have waterproof backpacking boots from Vasque, no trail runners for us. Jim and Sam emerge from the forest a half hour later looking dejected: the storm forced them to turn back and they made the right choice and listened. Sam will bag Half Dome tomorrow morning when Nick, Jim and I head further down the JMT.

The rest of the afternoon passes without incident. We're visited by the resident LYV ranger, Josh. The certainty of nasty storms tomorrow thanks to Hurricane Dolores (more on this later) has us contemplating hiking through the night into the high country at Uncle Jim's suggestion. The ranger approves of our plan if we want to do it, even though our permits say we have to stay at LYV. More interestingly, he gives us a stern warning as he confirms the rumor of a legendary bear known as Purple 8 who's territory happens to be where we'd be hiking through. Purple 8 is the color and number of the tag on her left ear. She's learned a trick to get into your sealed-bear canister: she rolls it up a hill with a big tall cliff on the other side and tosses it off. The canister smashes open on the rocks below, and she hikes down to claim her evolutionarily earned prize. Not so bear proof after all!

In the end we skip that plan and elect to wake up at first light and hike between 6AM and 1PM in an effort to avoid the afternoon storms headed our way from the Eastern Pacific Ocean. Not only do I not have an appetite; I feel genuinely sick in my stomach and get increasingly anxious and fearful that my body is physically rejecting this endeavor whether  I want to continue or not.


Tomorrow we climb to up above 10,000 feet, I MUST eat. So I choose the least offensive item I have: top ramen. After choking down most of the rehydrated top ramen, we visit the community fire pit. Tonight's feature: Jurassic World being projected onto a damn bed sheet by a bunch of college kids? We didn't come up here for this bullshit, we came for wilderness and nature, so it's one more trip to the compost toilet before bed.


In the morning, the Danza Men say goodbye to Sam for now and head into the Yosemite High Country. 

Into the West

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to..." -J.R.R. Tolkien.

The Yosemite Valley from Wowona Tunnel

Thursday, July 16, 2015

Finally the day is here: the journey begins, but not on the trail. Like most adventures, mine began with a farewell at home, in my NYC apartment saying goodbye to my then-fiancée, Phoebe. She travelled without me to Southeast Asia with her family for nearly three weeks in April 2015, so we've been apart for a long stretch before. But when the time actually came, the gravity of the separation, and the potential loss and danger of me setting out into the wilderness truly came home to us.

When Dad hiked the Muir Trail in '75, Mom gave him a small signet ring, unadorned except for an inlay made of turquoise. Phoebe gave me a strong band of tungsten last night, inlaid with bright turquoise, and in so doing she carries on another JMT tradition for our family. I'll wear it with pride and gather strength from it every step of the way.

With my heavy suitcase filled with gear, and my heart feeling heavy at leaving her behind, I step out the door without looking back. My tears quickly transform into a salty grin. This is it, we're on the threshold of the grand plan Nick and I have been working toward these many, many months, and I won't look at my work cell phone again for at least three weeks. I can't help but crack a nervous and optimistic smile.

Of course, before I can hike the John Muir Trail, I have to travel to California from NYC, which almost always turns out to be an adventure in itself, and this occasion would be no exception. I reluctantly check my suitcase at JFK International with the troublesome knowledge that it contains several thousand dollars worth of premium backpacking gear, hoping that the TSA agents who inevitably go through it don't steal anything. Luckily Phoebe hooked me up with an approved TSA lock, so the only people looking inside should be TSA inspectors (comforting I suppose?).

I board the plane and settle into my seat in the window. The middle seat stays empty as the flight continues to fill. I take my Tom Harrison JMT maps out of my backpack to study and make some last minute notes to the itinerary. The man sitting in the aisle sees my maps and exclaims, "you're hiking the JMT?! I section hiked it last year!" So commenced a great, but terribly short conversation.

For, boarding the plane is a large group of Europeans connecting in NYC from a flight from Athens, Greece. A very big, rotund, older man argues with the flight attendants in broken English because his young daughter or granddaughter can't sit next to him in the "Even More Leg Room" seats because the passengers sitting there must be physically able to operate the emergency exit doors and assist others in case of an emergency. The flight attendant asks the man I'm chatting with if he'd be willing to move to the More-Leg-Room seat for free, and of course he accepts, leaving me with Grandpa and princess.

I make the fatal mistake of assuming that the small child will slip into the middle seat next to me, and Grandpa will squeeze his fatter-ass into the aisle seat. But that would've been easy, and way too courteous . Instead, the 3ish year old girl makes a reluctant sort of squeaking sound at the prospect of sitting next to a strange man (see: me), so Grandpa indulges the child instead of, you know, telling her what to do, and decides he'll "sit" next to me. I spend the next six hours digging my right elbow into the very squishy rib cage of a very large man with bad breath squeezed into his seat like a busted sausage casing. There isn't enough booze on this whole plane for this shit!

Six magical hours later, we land in San Diego without further incident. Mom picks me up, and after a quick (see: required) stop at In 'n' Out Burger, we head home to her new condo in Oceanside for the night.

Friday, July 17, 2015

I barely slept last night. Between the preparations I have to complete today before travelling to Yosemite tomorrow morning, and travelling from the Eastern Sea Board last night, there's no sleep in me. I'm up at 6AM and ready for coffee and shopping. Today I have to sort and pack my gear, and purchase my consumable goods (food, toiletries and medications) for the first three days of the hike.

I retrieved my rented Bear Canister from Nick last night, and upon inspecting my suitcase, I discover that TSA left my possessions intact. Mom and I enjoy brunch on the beach in Oceanside before heading over to Target, Wal-Mart, REI and a host of other destinations to check each and every item off my shopping list for the first three days of the hike from Yosemite Valley to our first resupply at Tuolumne Meadows.

It's a long and hectic day. I'm stressed out, and find myself pretty exhausted and dehydrated from failing to eat and drink enough. Not exactly the best condition to be in before a long distance thru hike. Not to mention, I'm probably testy with Mom as she tries to help.

After all of the gear is finally sorted and prepared, I snap a quick photo of everything that I'll use in my day to day life for 20 days. Mom and I eat a late dinner of pizza and salad at home, and I lay down to try to sleep for the night. In the morning I return to the Yosemite Valley after a 20 year absence.

Saturday, July 18, 2015

Waking up in Mom's apartment, and not in the house I grew up in, has been a little weird. I'm anxious now, and very much awake, and Mom and I are at Nick's door at 3AM ready for the drive up to Yosemite National Park. Sam arrives and we caravan up, Mom and I together in one car, and Nick and Sam in the other. Mom takes first driving shift as we crawl up the spine of California. At Bakersfield we switch, and I get the pleasure of driving once the sun is high enough to brighten the San Juaquin Valley around us. Billboards and dust remind us of California's drought every few miles or so. 

We reach the eastbound two lane highway that snakes it's way into the Yosemite Valley. Once we drive into the last town before reaching the Park, we switch seats so I can give my full attention to the view when we arrive through Wowona Tunnel. There are two ways to drive into the Yosemite Valley from the West. One is by El Portal Road on Highway 140, which is less scenic as you drive into the small beginnings of the valley itself and wind your way up. Arriving via Wowona Road takes longer, but a marvelously engineered tunnel cut straight through a mountain spits you out onto a cliff face overlooking the valley with the dramatic, iconic view of Yosemite waiting for you. For first timers, there's not other way to arrive. 

First we reach the gated entrance to Yosemite National Park and get into line. It costs $40 for a week long pass for the park, the cheapest option. Yikes! To say we've been oddly fortunate throughout this entire JMT planning process is a huge understatement, and today wouldn't be any different. As Mom and I wait in line, a generous stranger approaches her car window and offers us the remainder of his annual pass for free. He says there's only 6 days left on it and he won't be returning to Yosemite while the pass is still valid. I smile, knowing this kind of courteous gesture is what I can expect from most strangers as we head into the mountain wilderness. 

It's so awesome driving in through Wowona Tunnel. This is the first time I've been here since 1995, the first time I've ever seen this place with grown eyes. We snap the obligatory pictures and we quickly head down Southside Drive to the Valley Floor. Our destination is the Wilderness Center at Curry Village, the Valley's bustling commercial and information central, where we'll retrieve our wilderness permit for the whole trip. We drive along the bottom of the Valley next to the Merced River with the convertible top down. Cruising by El Capitan, I gaze up and salute the Dawn Wall: we've arrived. 

This place is a zoo, way more crowded than I ever remember it as a child. We find Uncle Jim, Dad's younger brother, waiting for us at the Wilderness Center. He's joining us for the first six days on the trail to Reds Meadow. He and Sam's permit requires them to begin the hike today, at Glacier Point, while Nick and I begin tomorrow morning at Happy Isles. We'll rendezvous at Little Yosemite Valley Campground tomorrow. The luck/fortunate streak continues. Sam snagged a walk-up permit to start hiking with Nick and I tomorrow; since Jim is ready to get into the high country right away he opts to get up today as he originally planned. We all managed to add day use permits to climb Half Dome to our wilderness permits for tomorrow. Score! Or so we thought...

After a quick lunch in Curry Village, there's nothing else for us to do except to follow Jim up to Glacier Point to see him off and enjoy the views. This turns  out to be a big mistaken waste of our time. After sitting in horrible traffic on the long road up up up to Glacier Point for at least an hour, we reach a detour sign directing us to turn around because the parking is full. Instead of following the sheep and turning around, we improvise and ask one of the parking attendants if hikers with permits are allowed up to the Point, despite the fact that the parking is full. She says yes, so we head back to the detour and without asking permission from the Ranger on duty there, both cars hang a quick right in front of his confused face for the final drive up to Glacier Point and Jim's trailhead. 

We've been here before, several times. Glacier Point was usually Dad's staging point for our family hikes in the Yosemite Valley, namely the Panorama Trail, the exact trail Jim will use to access and connect with the JMT. I remember the area being larger, but the views are as magnificent as ever, and I drink in the sheer size of the mountains surrounding us. I look to the rows of peaks in the far distance behind Half Dome, knowing we're headed that direction in a couple of short days. We say goodbye to Jim for now, we'll see him again tomorrow morning when we arrive in Little Yosemite Valley, and he heads off down the Panorama Trail for a 5-6 mile hike to camp for the night. 

If we didn't regret going to Glacier Point because of the traffic driving up, the traffic getting back down into the Valley was so bad, so horrible, so mind-bending that we would've skipped it entirely in order to avoid the gridlock. Stop and go is inaccurate; the traffic on the Valley floor was so dismal people stopped their cars and unpacked entire picnic lunches or dinners to wait it out. At some point I simply decided to get out and walk: if we're going to be down in the Yosemite Valley I may as well walk around and have a look. 

I'm immediately shocked and dismayed by what I find. As I glide along between the roadside and the Merced River, I can't believe how crowded the place is. People feed the wildlife, to the point where the squirrels and other rodents grow obese and sloppy, fully dependent on humans for food. While we're in the Visitor Center, a father of two, when asked by a Ranger to identify the name of Half Dome (literally the iconic symbol of Yosemite and the National Park Service) shrugs and guesses, "Elephant Rock?" And the trash: it's everywhere, so I begin stuffing various articles in my pockets in disgust. Within minutes I don't have anymore room in my cargo pants for more and I begrudgingly give up. I gaze bitterly at the meadow below Yosemite Falls as some idiotic masochists destructively tromp all over the delicate grasses and flowers that take fifteen or more years to grow. They went off of the marked path, ignoring signs forbidding them from doing so, in order to snap a stupid picture, obviously meant for social media. It's hard to stomach these changes. As Nick puts it so eloquently, Raider Nation comes to Yosemite now.

A Ranger riding by on a bicycle against traffic provides some insight to the automobile-congestion and the conditions of the Park in general. Yosemite's visitorship has increased by 200% every single year for the past decade, with no apparent end to the growth in sight. All the while, the Parks Service is horribly underfunded and the Parks themselves are understaffed and under maintained, even as visitorship increases. This is a recipe for disaster. The ranger explains that daily, tens of thousands of people drive into the Valley, spend about an hour looking around and taking pictures, and drive back out. The Parks are public lands and nothing can prevent people from visiting, but the two lane road in the Yosemite Valley can't handle it. This is the result: a smelly, crowded, trashed example of a cherished place that has special events for the removal of litter and eco-graffiti. 

Finally, and for no explicitly obvious reason, the cars that have stood motionless as I walked by creaked into gear and inched forward. I waited for Sam and Company to pick me up, and soon we were back at Mom's car ready for the short drive down 140 to the Yosemite Cedar Lodge for the night. We arrive around sundown and check-in, then make for the dingy restaurant for our last dinner before hitting the trail. This would be our last taste of real food for three days. Or so we thought... 

The food was uninspiring, and the cashier made several strange jokes about my USC shirt because we were in 'bear territory.' I exhibited typical Trojan self-control, and didn't point out to him that USC had won 11 of the last meetings between the teams. Soon it was back to the room. I purchase the hotel's wi-fi so I can communicate with Phoebe; there's already no service here, and we're headed for the back country. I'm glad I splurged on a GPS device with satellite messaging for once we hit the trial, that way we can check in with our families and the outside world on a daily basis. 

I go through my gear one last time while everyone else tries to sleep, purging a few more items I was so certain I would need or want just yesterday. By the time my pack is ready, I can hear Nick and Mom snoozing away. Sam is next to the AC in a leather reclining chair set, apparently asleep immediately. I take one last hot shower. Then, just like we used to when I was a child, when I lived with my brothers and my sister, and me being the youngest, I squeezed into the middle in the only bed in the room between Mom and my brother Nick, and drift off to a light and never quite restful sleep.

Tomorrow we start the John Muir Trail.