Beauty * and * Bread

When we left our intrepid heroines, they had taken a walk out into the Cook’s Meadow area of Yosemite Valley to check for water in Yosemite Falls. Actually the pooches didn’t care too awfully much whether there was or not, but their mothers did. Where the mothers went, the canines followed.

The Yosemite area has been experiencing an explosion of tourism the likes of which we haven’t seen in years. The fact that we were able to make a pit stop at the Sentinel Beach bathrooms and park at shuttle stop 11 to admire the view from Sentinel Bridge was both a miracle and a testament to my insistence that we get an early start on the day’s activities. By noon it would have been wall-to-wall people.

As it was, the ladies attracted their fair share of attention as a result of their high cuteness factor.

The Cutest Dogs in Yosemite

Still, we had a minimum of problems getting in the car and making our way out of Yosemite Valley.

If I hadn’t been on a mission to check out the high country, I would have loved to make another couple of stops along the way, but we still had a drive of at least an hour and a half to reach Olmstead Point.

Olmstead Point is a must-see along Tioga Road, and Penny didn’t even know it existed.

Half Dome as seen from Olmstead Point, along Tioga Road

Closeup of Half Dome, showing the area of the dreaded cables--the last 400 yards of the climb to the top (above the lower "subdome")

If I read the body language right, Penny pretty much fell in  love with Olmstead Point. She kept exclaiming “I love rocks! I love rocks!” There are certainly plenty of them here, of all shapes and sizes, all carried here by glacial action in the formative eons of Yosemite’s birth.

More evidence of glacial action

The boulders are "glacial erratics," picked up, carried and set down by the force of the glacier

This area is a geologist’s paradise. There is so much of the area’s history visible from this one spot–domes and lakes and massive granite monoliths,  as well as the peaks of the Sierra Crest. I can never get enough of the vistas from Olmstead Point.

It’s a mark of what a good time we were having that I had no idea what time it was. Penny remarked, “I need to eat some lunch.”

I thought that was a bit odd since it was only 10:00 a.m. Except that it really was 1:00 p.m. and we’d been out and about since 8:00 a.m. I guided Penny and Katie to a spot at the end of the walking path and pointed. “That’s where we’ll have lunch.”

The lunch spot - Tenaya Lake

Oh, shucks. As I write this, it’s now 1:30 in the MORNING. Time for Foxy and me to hit the hay for a few hours. You’ll just have to wait ’til next time to hear about our delicious pic-a-nic on the shores of Tenaya Lake.

Give me a break!

I can’t begin to tell you how much I love what I do at the Visitors Bureau. And I don’t have to, because I tell you in just about every post I write. But . . . BUT . . . I have just a few pet peeves.

• People who don’t have a clue where they’re at or where they’re going, like the fellow who came in on Saturday and asked, “where are the geysers?”

Dude, get a grip. I shook my head. “The geysers are in Yellowstone.”

He looked at me blankly. Obviously he’d failed geography in grammar school. “How far is that?”

“About a thousand miles from here. You’re just outside Yosemite.”

“Oh. So do you have “waterfalls here?”

Maybe there’s hope, after all. “Yes, we do, but they’re about an hour and a half away.”

“Oh. So is there a shuttle bus?”

“Yes, but it’s an hour and a half away also.”

Finally we got him properly oriented and directed, and he was on his way. For all I know he may still be on his way to Yosemite Valley–by way of Yellowstone.

This is NOT Yosemite.

• People who insist that they can’t travel without using a GPS.

Not only are GPS’s not necessary in this area, they’re downright dangerous. A stupid electronic device doesn’t know the difference between a freeway and a one-lane dirt road. Just a couple of weeks ago a trucker delivering half of a double-wide mobile used a GPS to direct himself from Las Vegas to the mobile’s eventual landing spot in Oakhurst. Unfortunately the GPS insisted he’d be able haul the monster down Road 425b.  Not. Road 425b is very, very narrow–one lane in some spots. If two cars meet on parts of that road, chances are one of them will have to back up. That’s where he took the trailer. Because the GPS said he could. I think the paper said it took 7 hours to get things straightened out. I am beginning to hate the sound of those letters:  GPS. Whatever happened to the old-fashioned ability to read a paper map?

Note to readers: Yes!!!! we have streets named Road 425a, 425b and 425c. Madera County even has a Road 18-1/2. Not only that but virtually every street up here has at least two names. For example, Road 426 is also Crane Valley Road. Road 223 is also Teaford Saddle Road. Road 427 is Schoolhouse Road. Sometimes the roads change names for no apparent reason. Road 222 becomes Road 221 without warning. It’s enough to turn your hair gray–but it’s also good for laughs. It also confuses the heck out of people who come here. And the sad thing is, a GPS won’t solve your problems.

• People who come to the Yosemite area between Memorial Day and Labor Day without any advance preparation and no place to stay.
  

We want to help, but we’re not miracle workers–or mind readers. We do our best to know which places have rooms available, but we can’t always keep up. Still it gives me immense satisfaction when I am able to match visitors up with one of our hotels, motels or bed & breakfasts. And sometimes we do pull rabbits out of hats.

• People who don’t understand how huge Yosemite National Park is and want to see it all in four hours. I tell them I’ve lived here 20 years, have hiked many of its trails and still haven’t seen everything. And I never will.

• People who think the hike up to the top of Half Dome is a walk in the park.

Not everyone would need the 15 hours it took Shevy, Gail and me, but it’s a serious,serious 15 to 20-mile hike with a 4,800 foot elevation gain. Hikers need train, prepare and have good, broken-in hiking boots. I have seen people on the trail with flip-flops and a 16-oz. bottle of water.

Despite the above rants, I have to give these folks credit. They’re the ones who are smart enough to stop by the Visitors Bureau (or the one in Mariposa or the one in Yosemite Valley). They at least ask questions, and we’re able to steer them in what we think is the right direction.

Today a family of four came in, got information and left. Then the husband came back. “What’s your name?” he asked.

I told him, and he got our telephone number and website info. His in-laws are visiting Yosemite in a couple of months–and he just knows I’m the perfect person to help them plan their visit. You’ve gotta know how pleased I was by that. It made my day.

Shevy used to kid that every place I ever went was my very favorite (until the next one). That’s pretty much true, I have to admit. Still and all, Yosemite ranks at the very top of the list. I can never get enough, no matter the season, no matter the weather. So when friend Penny suggested a road trip, I had to suggest that we go to Yosemite. The deal was clinched when I found out that Penny had never been to the high country.

What? Someone who’s lived in Oakhurst for five years, Fresno for who-knows-how-many and she’s never seen Olmstead Point. She’s never felt Tenaya Lake’s water lapping at her feet? She’s never seen Half Dome’s back side?

It’s a crime, that’s what it is.

Truth be told, I had my apprehensions. Ever since she’s lived in Oakhurst she’s suffered debilitating and crippling panic attacks. She never knows when they’ll hit, and if they strike when she’s out away from home, they can be devastating. I purposely hadn’t given her my home phone number, dirty rat that I am, but I half expected to arrive at her house on Wednesday morning to have her say “I can’t go.”

And she almost did. “I was going to send you an email last night, but then I figured you might not see it. If I’d had your phone number, I would have called this off.”

But she didn’t, so there Foxy and I were, ready and waiting at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Foxy, who’d visited Penny and Katie for the first time just two days before, walked into the house as if she owned it. She took her place on “her” couch right next to P.I.T.A. a Siamese of the feline persuasion, who normally wouldn’t permit such a travesty, according to Penny. Both of Penny’s cats looked at Foxy as if they’d known her forever. What an auspicious beginning.

Get two control freaks in a car together and you’ve got real problems. Penny wanted–no, needed–to take her car and do the driving, even though she wasn’t as familiar with the route and roads as I was. I let her, without complaint, because I knew it was important to her sense of security.

As it turned out, the entire day was perfect.

In order to avoid the miserable road construction on Highway 41, we took the long way around through Mariposa and the Merced River canyon. Although the water level is down and the white water rafting that takes place when the river runs wide, high and fast was over for the season, it was still a beautiful drive. I insisted that we detour our trip up Tioga Road with a jog over to the heart of Yosemite Valley to do some research for my job at the Visitors Bureau. (IRS, does this make it a business trip????)

Amazing. Yosemite Falls still has water. It’s nowhere what it was in June, but visitors who come here in August are often surprised to find Yosemite Falls virtually dry. Not this year. (Bridalveil Fall maintains at least a trickle all year long.)

Upper Yosemite Falls behind the Woodpecker Tree

Although you can’t do white water rafting any more this year, at least the easy-flowing Merced in Yosemite Valley still accommodates the rafters who want to float lazily down to the spot where the crew picks up float and floaters and takes them back to Curry Village.

Down a lazy river

In order to take the above photos, we had to park at Sentinel Bridge and give the pooches (and us) an opportunity to stretch our legs. Katie, who is a therapy dog who visits assisted-living centers and libraries, didn’t mind at all when folks wanted to give her a pet or two. I confess I was a bit nervous about Foxy. Shy as they come, she generally backs away from any encounter with strangers. Except on this day. She was very accommodating when someone wanted to get acquainted. I think it was Katie’s influence.

My Favorite Fox

The Little Ladies. Aren't they a pair?

Through either luck or good planning or a combination of both, we were able to negotiate Yosemite Valley with a minimum of problems. Our area is enjoying our best tourist season in years, and there are wall-to-wall people in the park, especially the valley. When I was there just over a week before, it was so frustrating to fight the crowds that I had to leave. This time we arrived fairly early–around 10 a.m.–and were able to find parking where we needed to.

After our brief break at the Woodpecker Tree, we loaded up the girls and ourselves and headed for the glorious high country.

To be continued . . .

Paul Williamson, Bugler Extraordinaire

Continued from Blood, Sweat, Tears and Taps.

One correction needs to be made from the information reported there. When Sara read my post, she said, “I didn’t find out Paul’s age until we were on the trail. I didn’t have the nerve to ask his age directly, so I asked him the year he was born.”

I’d misreported that she’d found out at Von’s, before we left Oakhurst. If she had, she might have taken us aside and redesigned our plan.  As it was, we didn’t know, and we proceeded.

***

Shevy was not the fan of Yosemite that I am. In fact he’d told me that he’d been to the park more often since we’d been together than in all the years before that, put together. Still, he loved the hike to Sentinel Dome as much as any he’d done. He loved the 360 degree view from the top of the dome, and he loved the “top-of-the-world” feeling it gave those who ascended it. We’d climbed it in early morning, and we’d climbed it at sunset to watch the moonrise over the Clark Range. We’d negotiated that rocky trail by the light of headlamps, and Shevy had helped to doctor a fallen hiker in the very spot where Paul took his tumble.

That we were on this particular trail together to celebrate Shevy’s life (not his passing) was entirely fitting.

That we were there with a 92-year-old adventurer-raconteur-musician and life-of-the-party type fellow was even more so.

Shevy was no musician. He couldn’t carry a tune (although he could do a passable job of whistling the theme from “Bridge of the River Kwai” while I butchered it), but all those other things Paul is, Shevy was. As I began to realize having Paul there was almost like Shevy being with us, the tears began to flow, and they continued intermittently through the morning. Too many memories. Good ones.

Sara told me that Shevy’s non-stop talking actually was a later-in-life phenomenon. When the kids were growing up, he was mostly silent, and he engendered a certain amount of fear in them.  He made up for the silence in spades as he aged. As we hiked trails all over Yosemite and the Sierra Nevada, he would talk to everyone we met along the way. Sometimes he’d engage hikers from Britain or France or Tasmania in conversations so long the listeners’ eyes would begin to glaze over. Shevy wouldn’t notice, but I would, and I’d gently try to find a way to pull him away.

Paul was much the same. He clearly loved to tell stories, and he relished the company this outing afforded him.

Once planted on the rocky seat we found for him, Paul opened his trumpet case and pulled out the well-worn instrument he loved. It dated way back and had served him well as he’d actually performed with well-known bands. Wynton Marsalis had even expressed an interest in playing it. (That’s the problem with writing from memories several weeks old. Paul regaled us with tales from his youth and his earlier adult years, but I can’t remember the details. Where was my mini-digital recorder when I needed it? Back home in my office, of course.)

Sara took out the American flag she’d brought along and draped it over the rock in front of Paul.

“My friend Betty told me Jews place stones on a grave as a mark they were there to honor the deceased,” I mentioned, as I looked about for a stone to place beside the flag. The others did the same. It was like having Betty there with me, and she’d been with me at the memorials for both my mother and father.

Stones for Remembrance

When we’d hit the trail an hour before, there weren’t that many other people on it. Now more and more folks were passing by the spot where we’d set up camp. We waited for them to pass by before Paul began to play.

As the trail cleared in both directions, Paul raised the trumpet to his lips and sounded a crystal-clear version of the melody that for centuries has signaled the closing of a life.

Taps for Shevy

Paul certainly wasn’t shy, and he wanted to give Shevy his full due. After he finished “Taps,” he played and sang “Amazing Grace,” and then went on to “Claire de Lune” in honor of his wife.

After he’d finished, some of the folks went on to summit the Dome, while Angela, Nehanda and I waited. It gave Paul the perfect opportunity to share some of his memories with us. Turns out he was an educator, too, as Shevy was. And he impacted lives, as Shevy did.

After the rest of the group returned from the Dome, John decided to scout out the road I’d remembered from previous trips. We wanted to be sure we wouldn’t have Paul walk that distance only to find out it was a road to nowhere. Although once again he’d never admit it, he’d done about as much hiking as his 92-year-old body could handle. Just getting him to where he could get into the car would be enough for him.

After no more than five or ten minutes, John came back. “The road’s right up there.”

We got the gear packed up, and I slipped a rock  into my pocket. That’s a no-no. You’re not supposed to remove even a pine cone from a national park, but I needed a permanent remembrance of the day.

As you can see from the photos, Paul wore his U S Navy hat.

U S Navy all the way

The one thing missing from this gathering, besides Shevy himself, was Shevy’s Korean vet hat. He’d bought it one day when we’d stopped at the Fresno VA hospital to see about medical benefits. He wore that hat proudly whenever he felt he’d be around people who’d appreciate his military service. It would have been fitting to place it atop the flag while “Taps” was played.

After we got Paul up and going again with John, the rest of us headed back the way we’d come to get the cars.

It was a simple, unstructured ceremony out in the Yosemite wilderness.

Perfect for the simple, unstructured, unassuming fellow it honored.

Granddaughters Nehanda and Angela

Granddaughter Tiana (Tinker)

Listening - Nehanda, Tinker, Sara, John

Last Sunday I got to be a step-on guide.

A month ago I didn’t even know what that was. Now I are one.

As part of ECCO’s annual Opera program, I got to take a group of people into Yosemite Valley. Along the way I had the opportunity to narrate what they were seeing–thus the step-on guide. This was all very informal and last-minute, so the only expertise I can claim is what little I’ve remembered from the field trips I’ve taken with our stellar Exploritas instructor, Shirley Spencer.

By my account it was a success. Everyone seemed to have a good time, whether they spent time by themselves exploring the valley or they went with me on a hike out to Mirror Lake.

I love to recommend Mirror Lake as a destination for people who have enough time to do a short, easy hike on the Yosemite Valley floor. I was shocked (and appalled) the other day when Bayard, one of the other volunteers at the Visitors Bureau and a part-time forest ranger, disparaged that.

“Mirror Lake? Why it’s nothing but a puddle of water and a lot of sand,” is what he said.

I may not have Bayard’s years of experience, but I beg to differ.

Mirror Lake is the perfect–and perfectly accessible–example of Yosemite Geology In Action.

When I first started coming to Yosemite, Mirror Lake was pretty sizeable, and you really could see Half Dome reflected in it. That was back when the National Park Service dredged it out every year so that it would stay pristine. Now, in its wisdom, the Park Service has decided that maybe Mother Nature really knows best and has allowed it to morph into Mirror Meadow.

I happen to love this mini-hike because, if you go out on the trail to where the pavement ends and the dirt begins, you’re standing directly beneath that Yosemite icon, Half Dome. Look up and you’re staring at its face. When we got out there, I pointed and asked the four Opera guests, “what is that big rock looming over us?”

They all looked puzzled.

“That’s Half Dome.”

They looked amazed. They hadn’t imagined what Half Dome looks like from that angle. Most visitors only see Half Dome from Tunnel View or Sentinel Bridge or, if they’re lucky, Glacier Point. It gives you a whole different perspective to see it from Mirror Lake.

Three of us on the hike had actually climbed Half Dome–which gives you a whole OTHER perspective on the granite monolith–and it never fails to humble me to see it from all sides.

I also remember, each time I visit the valley (or any other part of the Queen of National Parks), how lucky I am to live where I live. Yosemite is my back yard. Jump in the car and I can be in Yosemite with in a half hour–in the high country within two or three when Tioga Road is open. The gift I can give back is a little of my enthusiasm to those who have only a a few hours or a day to spend visiting her.

I stood on top of THIS?

I have been blessed with my share of awesome hiking partners, too many to name, in fact, but a few merit special mention.

Shevy - Little Lakes Valley

First and foremost would have to be Shevy. Virtually all the significant hikes I’ve done have been with him. Half Dome (story to continue soon), Mt Dana, Little Lakes Valley, Cathedral Lakes, Gaylor Lakes, Elizabeth Lake and many more.  At 75, when we started, he was amazingly strong and agile, and he slowed down only a little over the next three-plus years.

When we attempted White Mountain, the third-highest peak in California, he was bummed when I called it quits at the beginning of the switchbacks leading to the peak. He still had energy left and knew he could make the summit. I wasn’t totally pooped but at that point we’d done only half the hike–and the hardest was yet to come. I had to be able to get back to the trailhead. We debated on his going on, but ultimately he chose to stick with me. Shevy always swore he was going to go back to White and complete the job I’d made him leave unfinished. Unfortunately that never happened before his untimely death on February 7.

Gail in a Field of Poppies at Hite Cove

Another favorite partner is my friend Gail. She and I met on a Sierra Club hike several years ago–B.S. (before Shevy). We seem to hike at the same pace, unless I’m taking photos, in which case I’m definitely at the tail of the pack. She and I have also done some very significant hikes. When we decided to accompany a Sierra Club hike to the top of Yosemite Falls, we egged each other on and finally made the bridge that spans the creek just before the falls cascade down to Yosemite Valley. If we hadn’t been together, I know I wouldn’t have made it. It was the partnership of suffering that kept me going.

We’ve done the wildflower extravaganza of Hites Cove several times. Although our ability to hike together over the past year has been severely curtailed by my weird work schedule and her involvement with Mariposa County Search and Rescue, I’m hoping that will change soon.

On Sunday I discovered a new hiking partner, one I’ll probably have trouble keeping up with in the very near future. He’s younger than my usual group of hiking companions, but he’s enthusiastic and wants to go-go-go.

I got to share my first hike of 2010 with him on Sunday as we trekked out to Yosemite’s Mirror Lake area.  I see great things in our future because he’s so concerned for the wellbeing of his hiking partners.

Who is he? He’s William Wallace Swan VI, and he’s the Junior Director of ECCO. So he’s my boss, of sorts.

William Wallace Swan VI

He’s also three and exceedingly polite. On our way back, he stopped before a set of rocky steps, took my hand and said, “Here, Miss Judi, I’ll help you down these steps. You have to be careful.”

Did I say he was three? He’s three going on forty-three. He’s also a total charmer.

Half Dome

This is the first in a series of posts honoring my hiking and life partner for nearly four years, Shevy Schindler. Shevy passed away suddenly on February 7, 2010.

In the end I’m not sure who conquered what.

Half Dome, that iconic symbol of Yosemite National  Park, still stands, so it obviously survived our assault.

Date:  June 24, 2005

Start time:  7:30 a.m.

Starting Point:  Glacier Point

Finish time:  11:30 p.m.

Hiking distance:  20 miles, give or take. Click on the link to see a map and get an idea of the various routes available. We took the one labeled Panorama Trail.

Elevation gain:  4,800 ft from Yosemite Valley; not quite that much from Glacier Point

Cast of Characters:  Shevy, Gail, me—and peripherally, my friend Dana, his grandson and his nephew

Route:  From Glacier Point down the Panorama Trail to the top of Nevada Falls, thence through Little Yosemite Valley and up the Half Dome trail to the sub-dome and up the 400 feet of cables to the 13-acre top of the Dome.

That’s right. Sixteen glorious hours of hiking splendor. And I’d do it all over again, if I could, minus that last 400-foot climb up the Half Dome cables. If you want to know why I’d avoid the cables, just examine the reasons the National Park Service has instituted the requirement for weekend permits to climb the cables during the 2010 season.

Shevy had hiked for years. At the time he was 75 years old, very fit and capable, but never in his life had he dreamed of climbing Half Dome. I’m the one who put that harebrained idea in his head. I was 62 and had only been hiking for a year. As I discovered that I could hike, I began reading about all the trails that Yosemite had to offer. Naturally the trail to Half Dome took center stage.

Just a month earlier Shevy and I had hiked the trail from Yosemite Valley to the top of Nevada Falls into Little Yosemite Valley and back—8 miles or so—and that constituted nearly half of the trail we’d be attempting this date. We’d done fine on that.

I’d also exhaustively researched the various trails that lead to HD, what to take and how to prepare (contrary to many of the people you meet on the trail—some in flip-flops, carrying a 16 oz. bottle of water and nothing else. Duh.) After examining all our options, we decided we’d rather take the longer trail from Glacier Point since it was downhill for quite a bit of the distance–and uphill on the way back when the sun would be setting.

We’d left home at 5:30 a.m. for the one-and-a-half hour drive to the trailhead. We met Gail at the usual place, Christ Church parking lot, and continued on to reconnoiter with the rest of the crew at the Panorama trailhead.

We arrived at 7:00 a.m. and found Dana and his party waiting for us. We were ready to set off, as soon as Gail got her gear organized and reorganized.

Gail and I had met a few months before on a Sierra Club hike and had become fast friends. We seemed to have quite a bit in common plus we hiked at about the same place–slower than Shevy’s.

Shevy and I met a couple of months later, and he could hike both Gail and me under the bus. That would continue to the end of his life.

To be continued . . .

Half Dome from Glacier Point - How do you get to the top of THAT?

Do you wonder where I get ideas for some of my posts? They often come from other bloggers. Like this one.

That’s part of the beauty of blogging. I get to relive parts of my life and expose my foibles for the enjoyment of one and all from the comfort of my family room. Shannon’s post raised some really uncomfortable memories for me, of the one-and-only time in my life I have ever tried to snowshoe. Not long after I moved to Bass Lake, friend Pat and I headed up to Badger Pass, inside the confines of Yosemite National Park. We decided to join a ranger-led walk.

Pat is originally from Boston, a long-time skiier and much more familiar with winter sports than I. I doubt that she had any trepidation about this adventure, but I did. From the time I was born I have had a problem with coordination. Just walking a straight line can be challenging, as all my friends are aware.

The ranger cautioned us. “Now be careful about falling. When you fall on snow, you have no leverage to get up.”

Do I need to tell you what happened about 100 yards into our walk?

Yup, you guessed it. Right over into the white stuff. Stuck. And the ranger was dead-on. When you’re in snow five or six feet deep, you can’t feel anything underneath to give you a basis to right yourself. It was embarrassing to say the least. There were probably 20 of us on this walk, and no one else, to my memory, ended up face down in the snow. Can’t for the life of me remember how I managed to right myself and continue on. I think it must have had to do with a crane or two.

The next time we came up to Badger, Pat skiied. I enjoyed the comfort, warmth and hot chocolate of the lodge while I cross-stitched a picture for friend Betty, who was in the throes of Saddam’s temper tantrum at the time. Pat and I were both happy and both in our respective elements.

Years later when I took up hiking, my coordination remained an issue.  I could go for miles over flat country–or even up rocky trails–as long as they didn’t involve

1. Creek crossings
2. Climbing over talus boulders

Most people would not find the situation in this photo a challenge.

Crossing Rock Creek at the beginning of Long Lake

Big rocks, relatively shallow water. Trekking poles for balance. No problem, right?

Right. For most people. But I’m not most people. Although it looks like I’m tripping the light fantastic here, the photo doesn’t illustrate the quake of my knees or the tremble in my voice. The closeup indicates how much room I had to maneuver.

Geez, if I’d lost my footing, I could have just walked through the water to cross the creek, although my feet would have frozen in the alpine snow-melt water.

Closeup of creek crossing

During this hike, at Rock Creek Lakes in the Eastern Sierra Nevada, there were probably four separate creek crossings. Of them, only two were of the quaking-knees variety–but that meant I had to cross each of them twice–once coming, once going. And I thought, all the way back, about the terror of going across those huge expanses of water over tiny rocks.

Another creek

This is probably my favorite hike of all time, to date. It is a round-trip of about eight miles through some of the most gorgeous high Sierra country I have ever seen. Admittedly every hike I have ever been on, except one (up to Inspiration Point in Yosemite–and that had to do with ankle problems, not the beauty of the scene), was my favorite of all time. And the next hike I do probably will be my favorite, too.

On another special hike, up Mt Dana, right at the eastern border of Yosemite, at Tioga Pass, I met up with the dreaded talus boulders.

But that’s a story for another post.

What are some of your terrors? Have you managed to conquer them?

Leaning Tower, Yosemite National Park

This is a photo from my archives, taken a couple of years ago, but it always puts a smile on my face. While the more usual subject of a photo taken in this area is Bridalveil Fall, to left and out of sight here, I was lucky enough to capture this scene, replete with fog, snow and clouds.

Leaning Tower is a popular climbing route in Yosemite, and it also is the place where world-famous climber Todd Skinner fell to his death a couple of years ago.

Disclaimer:  This is a stream-of-consciousness, rambling, sappy and much-too-long reminiscence, brought on by the empending move back to California by Hunter’s co-grandparents. I started thinking a lot about my own escape from Southern California to the Sierra Nevada foothills. This is the result.

You might want to quit now, while you’re ahead.

It’s not like I gave my move to the Sierra Nevada foothills a lot of thought.

Twenty years ago this past November 10, our family took a weekend excursion to Yosemite. It was the first time I’d even HEARD of Bass Lake yet alone visited there, but we’d wanted to go to Yosemite, and Bass Lake seemed a nice alternative to staying in the park. We had reservations at the Pines Resort, but we thought we might end up sleeping in our car because, try as we might, we just couldn’t find the Pines. We drove around and around, trying to make sense of the street signs. Finally, nearly ready to give up, we found the magic turnoff and rolled up to our chalet. It was midnight or a little thereafter.

I’m not kidding when I say that the minute my foot hit the dirt, I fell in love. So did Farida. There was just something miraculous about the scent of pines wafting on the gentle breeze and a sky filled to bursting with the Milky Way.

A night’s sleep further fueled our determination to look at real estate magazines. We were amazed to realize how much lower property values were up here, in the sticks.

Even though the Sierra Nevada foothills were a new experience for me, living in a mountain setting was a long-held dream. For as long as I can remember, I treasured visits to local Southern California mountain resorts. When my girls were growing up, we spent as many weekends as we could up in Big Bear at the cabin owned by the company friend Betty worked for. Each time–no matter the season–we struggled to figure out ways to extend our stays. Getting snowed in didn’t work too well in the summer, though. But our walks in the pine forests surrounding the Fawnskin cabin often centered around if only I could live in the mountains forever. Although at that time it was only a dream, it was one I buried deep within my soul, taking it out and polishing it up every now and then. Later on, when we’d lost access to the Clark-Porche Fawnskin cabin, we shifted our mountain fantasies to the tiny community of Idyllwild, again thanks to friend Betty’s connections. The love affair continued.

Each time I’d set foot on mountain soil, my spirit would rejoice. Even if only for the few hours I’d be in that environment, I would relax and leave behind all those worries that inhabited my everyday life.

Anyhow, back to Bass Lake.

We spent that next day, a Saturday, exploring Yosemite Valley. It wasn’t the first time we’d been there, but it really was the first time it so captivated my heart. I loved every minute of the day. Once again I felt as though I had come home.

That evening Farida and I pored over the newspapers and real estate literature we’d gathered. We realized that property prices were lowest in a little town called North Fork, some 16 miles from Bass Lake.

“Let’s check a few places out,” we agreed. “What do we have to lose?”

On Sunday morning we made an appointment with a realtor in North Fork. The rest of the family didn’t believe we were serious. In any case they were not interested in spending the day exploring real estate. Luckily we’ d driven in two separate vehicles, so everyone except Farida, Abid and I went off to do their own thing–agreeing to regroup at 3 that afternoon.

We looked at five houses that afternoon.

One was an A-frame with a broken kitchen window, a very narrow wrought-iron spiral staircase and no driveway. It was located on the road up to Cascadel Woods. If we’d bought it, we’d have to park somehow on the road and schlep anything we needed to carry to the house a few hundred feet down the hill. The next house was on Cedar Lane in Bass Lake Annex. It was small, older and cute but didn’t quite hold the appeal we’d hoped for.

The third house we fell in love with:  a three-bedroom, two-bath home on about half an acre in an area known as Bass Lake Annex No. 3. An inauspicious name for a lovely place. Backing up to Sierra National Forest land, the property actually seemed larger than it really was. The house wasn’t terribly large, but it was in excellent condition, and it fit what we thought we were looking for. The area, too, appealed to us. It was a quiet circle of about 30 houses or so, set a mile and a half from the south end of Bass Lake.

By 3 p.m. Farida and I had made up our minds. We told the realtor we had to meet with the rest of our party and got him to agree to take us back to the house to show it to everyone else–who really couldn’t grasp the idea that we were prepared to make an offer on the house that afternoon. They toured the house, liked it but thought we’d come to our senses the next day.

I’m not a courageous person, and I have a tendency to think things through so long that I end up giving up on them. This time I faced a life-altering decision. As long as anyone could remember, I’d said I wanted to live in the mountains. Here was my chance, at a price I could afford, along with Farida’s help. Would I chicken out or would I follow through?

Actually, it was my mother who made the purchase possible. After years of ill health, she’d passed away unexpectedly in June. During one of those rare occasions where we’d had a heart-to-heart, she’d extracted two promises from me:  that I’d share the money she’d scrimped and saved with Farida and Nasreen and that I’d use a share of it to make a better life for myself.

I did both.

My mother would never have considered such a move herself. She hated country life, and she despised snow. Growing up in tiny Clarks, Nebraska, she’d experienced enough of both to last a lifetime. Yet somehow when I was three, my dad had persuaded her to move to Vista, a small town 15 miles east of Oceanside in northern San Diego County. She lived there with my dad and me for some 13 years, until she ked my dad into moving back to the Los Angeles area, where they’d lived before I was born. That decision, made and executed in the summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school, devastated me, and I honestly don’t think I ever recovered from it. That’s a lot of life lived as “what if” and “if only.”

Thinking about all of that as I sat in the chair in the North Fork realtor’s office, I faced a crossroads. Here was the chance I’d claimed I’d longed for. I could make it happen if I were brave enough. Was I?

We signed the offer that day and drove home the following one, on pins and needles awaiting the outcome. During the two or three weeks we negotiated back and forth with the home’s owners, I tried to talk myself into backing down. The whole thing didn’t make a lot of sense, but all the pieces of the puzzle were there, and it was up to me (and Farida) to put them all together.

If we had to have a mountain house, Abid tried to talk us into looking for one closer to home, up in Big Bear perhaps. We made a trek up to Big Bear City and looked the area over. As much as I’d once loved the area, there was no contest. The properties were more expensive, the lots small, the houses too close together–and the area more congested and dirty than I’d remembered. No, Bass Lake was the place. Thanks to Abid’s suggestion, I’d erased all doubts.

Finally the deal was sealed, and we agreed to a 30-day escrow. Farida and I talked things over. For her the home would be a vacation place. Although eventually I wanted to move fulltime to Bass Lake, I figured that would be way in the future, at least a year or more.

From what I could tell, jobs in the area were scarce, and I had no desire to drive 45 miles down the hill to Fresno to work. I, too, was quite content for the house to be a vacation place until a job materialized.  I subscribed to the Sierra Star, watched the want ads and tried to learn all I could about my new home.

On February 1, 1990, we closed escrow on the house.

Over the next months I watched the Star. Few help-wanted ads appeared, but a couple caught my eye, and I decided to submit resumes. I held no hope that I’d get responses. Why would anyone want to take a chance on someone who lived five hours away? Two interviews later, I landed a job in Oakhurst. I had a week to make the move from Santa Ana to Bass Lake Annex.On April 29, 1990, I loaded up my most important possessions, waved goodbye to Nasreen and Abid as they stood in the driveway of our Santa Ana home and drove away. They couldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

The following day I started work at California Builders Supply, where I remained–except for a hiatus of six months during which I worked for the Agribusiness division of Travelers Insurance–for the next nine years.

Do I regret what some might perceive as a rash act?

Not for a moment. I’ve felt right at home here from the very beginning.

The Bass Lake Annex house is no longer mine; I moved out in 1998. In fact maybe it never was. It’s now owned by my dear friends, Jack and Jenny. Jenny and I go way back–to the first day of college at
L A State in 1962. I think I just held the house “in trust” for them until they realized it was theirs. But that’s a whole other story.