Me and Yosemite
Before I begin, I would like to preface by stating the Tess you are about to hear from was a young Tess. I wrote this down in my diary five years ago, when I was 28 years old, and this event occurred during my FIRST two months on the road. To say I was “new” to 1.) being on the road, 2.) being in the wilderness, and 3.) being on my own would be a vast understatement. I have since learned A LOT. With that said, please proceed reading with a little grace.
~
There was a moment today, during my hike from Porcupine Flat to Yosemite Valley, that I fell into a groove.
It was around mile 4 of my 12-mile hike that the rhythm of my feet caught my attention. They shuffled against the forest floor like a soundtrack. I was so amused by this sound I wasn’t paying attention to much else.
When suddenly, a loud THUD hit the ground in front of me – enough that my feet vibrated. The vibration echoed up legs and into my chest. I looked up slowly, while silently praying to myself, “Please, don’t be a bear,” and was instead surprised by a gigantic mule deer.
She jumped out into the middle of the trail, no more than three yards ahead of me, and for the longest moment, we just stared at each other. She confronted me. I knew I was in her space. I slowly brought my palms up in front of me, and whispered, “I’m sorry; I’m not here to hurt you.”
Seemingly satisfied with this apology, she led me up the trail. Guiding me. For a second, I felt like I was 5 years old, playing a ridiculous game of Follow-the-Leader.
After a few yards, she parted back into the woods and off the trail. She watched with unimpressed eyes as I made my way past her. I glanced in her direction and said, “Thank you.” Why? I’m not sure. Maybe I was grateful she didn’t kill me? I also told her to “Have a nice day.” Why? Because I truly hoped she did. She made my morning.
Now, you might have noticed that I said, “morning,” and not, “She made my ‘day.’”
That’s because this interaction did not make my whole day better.
~
Let’s flash-forward 8 hours later. Around mile 20? 25? Of my now 30-mile hike. When I was definitely NOT in a groove anymore. When I had hiked an additional 10 miles of TOUGH. When I had run out of water. When I had 12 miles between me and my car at 4pm.
Let’s roll the clock to dusk (aka dinner time), when I was not paying proper attention to my surroundings again. But this time, it was because, well, I was in full-blown survival-mode. Aka: I was focused on breathing, on getting to water, on not passing out, on GETTING THE F*CK OUT OF THE FOREST BEFORE I HAD TO USE A FLASHLIGHT.
(Quick spoiler-alert here: I had to use a flashlight.)
Let’s talk about the time when I was still praying, “Please, don’t be a bear.” But what the universe heard was, “Please, MORE bears.” Because I ran into not one, not two, but three different bears.
Yes. Everything I just said actually happened.
How? Well…
~
I had hiked 10 miles from Porcupine to North Dome and Yosemite Point, then down to Yosemite Falls, and right as I was about to descend farther down into the Valley (the town), I hit a fork in the road. I looked at the signs and saw that I could hike 3.1 miles down to town (as I had originally planned) OR I could hike 4.7 miles up to the summit of El Capitan (totally not planned). And all that my little, inexperienced, naive brain saw at that particular moment was a mere 1-mile difference between my two options.
It didn’t see the fact that I was already at 10 miles for the day, and that I would be looking at 20 miles if I turned around right then – which should have been my move.
My brain also did not consider that I was running low on water and needed the trip to the Valley to refill my bottle. It also didn’t see the simple fact that 4.7 miles up to El Capitan really means almost 10 miles total. Nor did it consider how hard hiking to the summit of El Capitan was going to be. Nor how long it was going to take. And it definitely, definitely did not see the fact that I was going to be standing at the very tip-top of El Capitan at 4pm, with 5 miles to hike back down, and 10 miles back to my car. Ya know, after already hiking 15 miles to get there.
Nope. Nope. My dehydrated, adrenaline-ridden, and tired little brain didn’t see any of these warning signs. Why? Because I was hiking in Yosemite for the first time, people! The awe factor was Level 1000 and fueled my desire to see more. Around every corner was a new beautiful and breathtaking landscape to behold. I was having the time of my life! Which is why, when my brain read a sign that said, “El Capitan - 4.7 miles,” it thought, “Well, we’re already here! Why not?!!”
~
So. Now. Let’s pause for a moment and reflect on the absolute coming-to-Jesus moment I experienced at the top of El Capitan. And I am now thinking, “I have to get back down this mountain now.” And then, let’s imagine together the sheer panic that filtered over my face when I was realized, “F*CK, it is 4pm and I have to get down this mountain, AND I have to get over the other two mountains I took to get here.”
Yea.
Let’s all enjoy that visual together.
Because let me tell you: in the moment, there was nothing funny about it.
So. I hiked the 5 miles down El Capitan, and I’m at that fork again. Except now, I don’t have the daylight hours to do the 3 miles down into the town to get the water I need, because it would actually be 6 miles total. And THANKFULLY, my brain was more experienced the second time around, calculating TOTAL miles, instead of just the number written on the damn signs.
No. Wait. My brain doesn’t deserve that credit. Let me correct that: it was the blisters on my feet properly doing the math at that point.
~
So. I had to start back. I barreled towards 10 miles back to the car, with no water, no time to spare, no sole in sight, all while being carried by a sore body, aching feet, blisters, and a headache. And of course, my anxiety was building, so let’s add some gagging here and there.
When I made it up the first of the two mountains back, it was 6pm. I was spent. The first mountain isn’t a joke. It’s a steep climb over Yosemite Falls and up to Yosemite Point (the sorta-kinda top) then an even higher climb to North Dome (the tippy top) with minimal shade and uneven surfaces, so foot placement requires focus.
I made it the sorta-kinda top and was about to combust in panic and dehydration, when I spotted a guy around my age taking pictures of himself by the cliff face...with his shirt off?
I walked over, interrupted his solo photoshoot, and asked if he had any water to spare. He led me over to his hammock, which was dangling over the ledge of Yosemite Point. He poured from his water bottle what he could spare – only a quarter bottle of water.
(Sidenote: he also told me that if I had arrived just a few minutes earlier, he had been naked. “I figured this was the time no one would be up here,” he laughed, “but I guess I was wrong.” But what he was really saying to me was: “I should be up here alone, but here you are, you dumbass.”)
I drank my water (aka: his water), and we exchanged pleasantries. I told him I had quit my job to travel for a half year, and he told me that he moved to Bishop, a town 30 miles south, just to be closer to Yosemite. “To sleep at places like this,” he cockily gestured to his precarious hammock.
I told him my plan. That I had to hike back to my car at Porcupine Creek. To which he had the only valid and realistic response a person could’ve given me at this particular junction in my life:
“Sketch,” he said.
“Super sketch,” I concurred.
The unspoken spoken between us.
I told him I hoped to make it back before it was dark out, and he told me I had “no chance in hell” – which was honesty I appreciated given the fact that I was trying to manage my expectations (and my anxiety).
I left my nudist photog extraordinaire and continued up (yes, still up) to North Dome. I drank my last driblet of water and started my descent down.
~
For clarity: there are areas of the mountains that have more fallen trees than others. Sometimes, there’s a gigantic tree that has fallen completely over the trail, and it has been sawed through to make the path still passable. This was one of those areas.
I was on an incline, coming up a small hill, passing through a large fallen tree, so I had no view of what was on the other side. And I was so caught up in moving quickly, that I took three steps down the other side before I realized. The sound caught my attention mid-stride. I turned my head to see a bear, just off the trail, only feet away from me, ripping into a fallen log.
Luckily, it was a black bear that was more interested in using its claws to tear into the bark of the fallen tree, than it was in tearing me up. And it was more interested in eating the termites and bugs he was digging for, than eating me or the sandwich in my backpack.
I never broke my stride. I was walking right past him when I noticed him, and I just continued to walk. Didn’t hesitate or stutter step.
When I got a few yards up the trail, I stopped and thought, “Holy shit, Tess, this is the first wild bear you’ve ever seen. You should take a picture,” and then came the immediate second thought: ”YOU ARE YARDS AWAY FROM A WILD BEAR, TESS. WHAT THE F*CK ARE YOU DOING. KEEP MOVING.”
So, I kept moving. Sans picture.
This whole interaction gave me a solid push of adrenaline that kept me going strong until I finally reached the sign I was hoping for:
“Porcupine Creek - 3.1 miles.”
“Last push, I can do this. Hell, I just survived an encounter with a bear, I CAN DO THIS,” I thought.
And then I ran into another bear. And it was a momma bear, with her cub, and I immediately thought, “I CANNOT DO THIS.”
~
This time, I stopped. I know how protective a momma bear is with her cub, so this felt incredibly dangerous.
Momma Bear saw me immediately, but she quickly moved farther away from me, and away from the trail. Baby Bear, however, did not see me, and started coming towards me. I moved into its lane of vision by stepping to the side, and dragged my foot along the dirt so it heard me. Good news: it stopped coming towards me. Bad news: it ran to its mom.
Momma Bear didn’t like Baby Bear’s sudden surprise, and she stopped moving. And she stared at me. “I’m sorry; I’m not here to hurt you,” I found myself whispering for the second time. But this time, it was followed with, “Please, don’t hurt me.”
I was too scared to move. Not sure what to do. Pummeling through thoughts in mere milliseconds: “Do I just wait for them to keep moving? Do I move? Should I move? Should I put up my arms and make myself look big? Should I make a loud noise? No, that could be threatening, and I don’t think I appear threatening right now. Which is good. Because she’s not charging me. So, I won’t move. But I should move. But move slow? Not too slow, cause I need to create space. Not fast either, because I can’t run away. Maybe I just shouldn’t move.”
“MOVE!!” a loud voice shouted in my head.
So, I moved, slowly, making sure neither one followed. I caught eyes with Momma Bear every time I glanced behind me. Her eyes remained on me until I was out of sight.
~
The final hike up the second mountain to get to my car was HARD. My adrenaline had completely crashed from my run-in with three bears. My dehydration was making me feel nauseous. The bugs were descending on me. And it was dark. I had my headlamp on, with a flashlight in my hand, and I was counting my breath cycles to keep my mind off my aching feet.
When I FINALLY made it up the last steep incline to the car park, a man jumped out of his car at the trailhead. I could feel fear radiating off him, and I knew without hesitation that he needed my help. He gestured for me to stop with desperation in his movements. Then, putting his head down, he contemplated what to say and how to say it, as I realized he was foreign.
“Uhhhh, girl?” he finally stammered, gesturing a general height about my own with his hand. And then, he pointed fervently to his eyes, and then to the dark trail which I had just emerged from.
“Have I seen a girl? A girl my size?” I asked confused.
He shook his head, defeated, and thought hard again.
“Son. My son,” he said and pointed at the trail again.
“I didn't see anyone. I didn’t see anyone on my way back,” I said slowly, while shaking my head, pointing to my own eyes and to the trail again. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t see him,” I repeated. His shoulders slumped.
I didn’t have the language to communicate to him where I had hiked from and just how far I had come. That I hadn’t seen anyone since Yosemite Point, over 8 miles away.
We looked at the empty trail in the dark.
And we said nothing more.
I felt helpless.
I knew he did too.
~
When I got into my car, the wave of relief I was expecting to feel, that I had been imagining for the last 10 miles, didn’t wash over me. I was so tired. My extra water wasn’t in my car, but back at my campsite. And I was worried for the parents who still had a son out in the woods, but more-so worried for the son.
“He’ll be okay. If I can do it, anyone can,” I spoke aloud. Wishing it. Willing it.
When I got to my campsite, I thought the wave of relief would finally wash over me when I grabbed my water jug and chugged from it, like I had been visualizing for hours. But I couldn’t drink as I wanted to. My stomach hurt. I felt nauseous. And I knew I would make myself sick by drinking too much, too fast.
When I got into my tent, I realized my heart was still pounding like it had been on the trail. I laid back, propped my feet up, held my hand over my heart, and repeated in my head, “You’re safe. Look around you. You’re in your tent, Tess. You’re safe now.”
Finally, my heart began to slow, and with it, my anxiety. I took some sips of water and then began the process of taking off my filthy, dirt-and-bug ridden clothes. When I took off my shoes, I gasped. Not because of the blisters (I was expecting those), but because my ankles were black. As if the dirt had solidified to my skin like tar.
As I was unsuccessfully washing my feet and ankles with wipes and disinfectant, I began massaging them, being more intentional and thoughtful. I found myself saying, “Thank you, heels,” as I rubbed my heels, and “Thank you, Achilles,” as I rubbed my ankles. This continued all the way up my legs, shoulders, neck, and head – wiping down parts of my body, while massaging them, and thanking them.
The long process of wiping the day off me finally relaxed me. It calmed my body. But now, it’s 3am, and I’ve been laying awake in my tent, writing all of this down for the past 4 hours. Because my mind will not let me sleep until the extent of this hellish day is put on paper.
~
There is no moral to this story (other than being better prepared) nor is there a happy ending (other than the fact that I’m still alive).
So, I guess, all that’s left to say are the facts:
I unintentionally hiked 30 miles today.
And I got my ass handed to me by Yosemite.
End
Edit: No, I don’t recommend anyone hike Yosemite without a set plan and proper supplies. Yes, it still haunts me to this day that I don’t know what happened to the son, or if he was ever reunited with his father. And yes, I know I’m lucky to be alive.