Beauty * and * Bread

I got a surprise this morning when I went to check my blog comments.

The usual is a line of spam a mile long. I watch for familiar names and approve them. Almost by rote I hit the “unapprove” button and move on with any I don’t recognize. My finger hovered, ready to trash the comment, when I realized that it not only wasn’t spam, it was proof that this blog can mean something to someone (besides me) and that a particular post sometimes reaches the right audience.

Here’s the comment, from Carie. It refers to this post.

• Mr Helling was my teacher way way back when, he taught the 5th grade at Roeding Elementary school. I will never ever forget the day he came to school as John Muir, we were all riveted by him. He was one of the only teachers who ever seemed to give a damn about us. He took us camping for a week in yosimite, he opened up a whole new world for us. He was and will always be my #1 hero, the man who cared enough to teach us, who cared enough to give of his time, who cared enough to give us a chance…best man ever

I’m not quite sure how Carie happened on this blog, but I’m glad she did. It gives me yet another chance to share with the world one of the people who has most inspired me.

Frank will be working with me next week, for maybe one of the last times as I transition to the full-time job at the Visitors Bureau. I hope he’ll continue to work for ECCO with whomever takes over the program coordinator position, and I hope I’ll be able to engage him for other activities in conjunction with my revised employment at the VB. In any case there’s no doubt that Frank and wife Patti will remain cherished friends.

Next week he’ll be portraying John Muir as he leads my Road Scholar group into the Mariposa Grove of Giant Sequoias. This is a place John Muir and Teddy Roosevelt camped together as they discussed how to preserve for all time the precious resource that is Yosemite. I won’t be going along, except in spirit, but I’m so thankful to be able to share another precious resource with a very lucky group of people.

You can see a photo of Frank here, portraying John Muir at one of ECCO’s Elderhostel (now Road Scholar) programs back in August 2005. The photo was taken by Pete Hoyle.

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

It has been almost a week since the 640-foot snake showed up on my living room floor and surprised the bejeebers out of me and my friend Pat.

At the time we had only emptied one of these.

Only the Finest Is Served at Chez Grey Eagle

That situation was remedied rather quickly on the Evening of the Snake.

Since then Pat and I drove to Yosemite Valley, dined overlooking Bass Lake at the Lakeside Grill, enjoyed the magnificence of a Sierra Nevada Spring al fresco on the deck of Chez Grey Eagle, and she has returned to her daughter’s home in Southern California, preparatory to her return to Arkansas in just about a week. It was hard to bid her goodbye at the train station–not knowing when we’ll see each other again.

Due to the miracle of the Internet, we will certainly be in contact every bit as often as we were when she lived in Huntington Beach. It isn’t the same, I know, as being able to jump in the car and be in the same room together within a five-hour drive, but it’ll be okay.

May there be many more bottles of Charles Shaw’s finest in our future.

May there never be another 990-foot snake for either of us anywhere.

AKA The Three Stooges Return to Glacier Point

It’s time to finish up the tale of woe (and joy) that constitutes the assault on Half Dome that Shevy and I and our friend Gail completed on June 24, 2005. Because we took the looooonnnnngggggggg trail, which involved climbing back up to Glacier Point, the trek almost slopped over into the wee hours of June 25. As it turned out, we managed to hobble up to our car at somewhere close to 11:30 p.m. on the day we started.

Here are links to the first three parts of this tale:  Part 1, Part 2, Part 3.

We ended Part 3 at the bottom of the subdome after our epic climb of the cables to the top of Half Dome and back down. You can imagine how proud of myself I was. I’d never in my life believed I could achieve something like this.

But all those hiking books I’d read before this journey emphasized one thing:  Getting to the top is only half the journey. You have to get yourself back to your starting point, hopefully in one piece. We had now completed half the hike, and it was around 3:30 or 4:00 p.m. To give you a bit of perspective, we’d left Glacier Point at 7:30 that morning.

What do all those numbers tell you? It tells me that no matter how fast we hiked, at some point we’d be traveling in the dark.

Luckily all three of us were smart enough to bring illumination devices of some sort or another. Nevertheless, we wanted to be as far up the trail as possible before it became pitch black. And, trust me, pitch black it would be. The moon wasn’t scheduled to rise until the early morning hours.

We made reasonable time down from the Dome to Little Yosemite Valley, past Nevada Falls, up Panorama Ridge and down toward the Illilouette Bridge. But with every step things got darker and darker. There were still a few people on the trail, but the population thinned out fast. One of the last groups of people we passed was a mother, father and their daughter, who appeared to be about 7 or 8. They were clearly planning to camp, and both parents wore full backpacks. The little girl wasn’t sporting a backpack–but she was ringing a bear bell as she walked. You can imagine how reassuring that was.

There are differing opinions about the usefulness of bear bells. It’s supposed to warn the bear that there are humans in the vicinity (as if the bear couldn’t smell them already) and encourage them to stay away. The other side of that coin is that some people believe that bears have learned to recognize what the bells mean–and it attracts them.

We had no bear bells.

Gail and I also had no Shevy. Being the gentleman he was, he hotfooted it down the trail and left us in the dust. I’m not sure what his motive was, but we finally caught up with him at the Illilouette Bridge, just as the last vestiges of light faded behind Glacier Point.

Out came the flashlights. Shevy took the lead, I was in the middle, and Gail brought up the rear. Both Gail and Shevy had handheld lights, while I had a headlamp. If I’d had any common sense, I would have handed the headlamp over to Shevy because every time he’d turn around to talk to me, I’d look up–and shine the spotlight directly into his eyes, blinding him. Meanwhile, the batteries in Gail’s flashlight began to fail, much like their owner. She was definitely feeling the effects of the altitude as we climbed back up to 7,200 feet as quickly as we could. Neither she nor I are fast hikers, but she was definitely slower than usual. Because she no longer had a light source, I dropped back to hike with her and illuminate the path for both of us. Shevy would romp on ahead then every once in a while would wait for us to catch up. Each time he did, I’d be greeted with a torrent of 4-letter words because I’d look him in the eye with my headlamp. This part of the hike would definitely NOT fit into the “fun” category.

I think I may have failed to mention that the trail back to Glacier Point from Illilouette Fall is UP. Relentlessly up.  According to my topo, the trail elevation at I.F. is 5,929. Glacier Point, as previously mentioned, is 7,200. That’s a lot of climbing when you’ve already hiked a full day.

After being on the trail from the Fall for an hour and a half or so, I began to hear cars.

“Glacier Point is just around the next switchback,” I proclaimed. And proclaimed. And proclaimed. Switchbacks came. Switchbacks went. Still no parking lot and no car.

There was never a question that we were lost. We knew we were on the trail, and we’d get there eventually. We just didn’t know when that “eventually” would be. When you can’t see where you’re going, you lose perspective, and you can’t observe any of the landmarks that would help you gauge your whereabouts, thus indicating how far you have to go.

“I hear cars” would become a watchword with Shevy and me as we hiked, a small inside joke when we were in the middle of nowhere and had a long, long ways to go. The other habit we developed during our many hikes was a badly-whistled version of the theme song from “The Bridge on the River Kwai.” The only problem with that scenario is that I can’t whistle, and I can’t carry a tune. I’m sure there were plenty of hikers who were treated to those sounds over the 3-plus years Shevy and I hiked together who wished we’d shut our mouths!

From time to time I did worry about our meeting up with a bear, but we never heard a sign of any wildlife during that part of the hike.  It was just us, a sky full of stars and the sound of water crashing over Illilouette Fall as we made our way, plodding, up to the top of the ridge.

When we finally reached Glacier Point, I wanted to drop down and kiss the ground. By our later reckoning, we’d hiked some 20 miles that day and gained about 4,800 feet in altitude.

It was an epic hike.

***

Footnote:  That was on June 24. We were on the trail again on July 4.  That hike is also a story to be told, but I want to mention one little feature of the July 4 trek that bears slightly (pun intended) on the June 24 one. As we descended the Panorama Trail toward Illilouette Fall, we came to a screeching halt. Directly in front of us–square in the middle of the trail–was a cinnamon-colored bear. He looked at us. We looked at him. A Mexican standoff if there ever was one. Eventually we won, and the bear ambled off into the brush.

The view we WOULD have seen from Glacier Point if it had been daylight. That big blob on the extreme left is Half Dome.

Pacific Dogwood, Yosemite Valley, 5-27-10

Every year I wait and wait and wait. I ask everyone coming back from Yosemite Valley, “are they out yet?”

Usually they make their first appearance sometime in April and are in full bloom by mid-May at the latest.

Not this year.

When I went into the park on May 18, there were a few Pacific Dogwood blooms, but nothing like the displays we Yosemite aficionados have come to expect by that date. I was able to find a few blossoms and snapped a few photos. (You think one dogwood looks just like every other? Maybe so, but every year I have to photograph them for posterity anyway.)

By the way, did you know that those white petals are not actually flowers? They are bracts, according to Wikipedia, it’s a specialized type of leaf.

As I’ve driven to work the last several days, I’ve noticed the one lonely dogwood tree along Road 274 into Oakhurst. Yesterday I promised myself to take the camera, and this morning I did. The bracts look the worse for wear because they’ve been in bloom for a while, but they’re still beautiful, to me at least.

Pacific Dogwood along Road 274, Bass Lake, 5-29-10

New Oak Leaves against a background of Pacific Dogwood, Bass Lake, May 29, 2010

This must be paradise.

Shevy - Approaching Half Dome

The hike to the top of Half Dome is not something to be undertaken lightly. It isn’t your average day hike of 5 or 6 miles round-trip. Of course for those younger than we were, it wouldn’t have taken as long.

One June 24, 2005, Shevy had just celebrated his 75th birthday a month earlier and I’d begun my 63rd year in January. Looking back on it now, I’d say we were the oldest folks to top out on the monolith that day–or damn close to it.

At somewhere around 2 pm, we got to the subdome . . . and I stopped. Up to that point the hike had been pretty much your average trek in the woods–uphill, yes, but unremarkable in its difficulty.

The subdome changed all that. In the photo above, you can barely glimpse the rock outcropping that is the final approach to the final approach (the cables). From this distance you can’t see the set of stone steps that lead up to the saddle. There are a mess of ‘em, all between a foot to a foot-and-a-high, about two feet wide–with absolutely no handrails or protection between you and the great expanse below.

I don’t like heights. Why in tarnation I’d set it in my mind that I had to do this hike I’ll never figure out. It was my idea. Shevy would never have done it on his own–not because he couldn’t but because it simply didn’t interest him. But once at the gateway to the top, his competitive nature would not allow him–or me–to turn around. Oh, I tried.

I stopped dead in my tracks. “I can’t do this,” I protested. “There’s no way I can climb those steps.”

Gail had already told us, from the very beginning, that she had no intention of climbing to the top. She planned to wait it out right where we were now.

Shevy stared at me, hands on hips. “You’re not backing out now. No way. You got me up here. You’re going all the way.”

“I can’t.” I was ready to bawl.

“Yes, you can. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Oh, great. So when I slide, I’ll take you with me.”

“Just do it Get started”

Somehow I did it, and it didn’t take as long as I thought it would. Soon enough–20 minutes or so–and we were standing on the saddle, at the foot of the cables. Our friend Dana was there, having just come down from the top. This was his third or fourth trip up Half Dome, so he was an old hand at it. His nephew and grandson were right behind him.

The advantage to our having taken so long to get to this point in the trail would become obvious soon. But for now it was time to make our way up the last 400 feet to the top. The dreaded cables. The expanse of metal cables for handholds and two-by-fours spaced every three feet or so for foot braces. Once again I tried to back out. Once again I was foiled in the attempt.

It really didn’t take all that long to get up to the top, and it wasn’t nearly as difficult as I’d imagined it to be. I did it in fine style, as did Shevy.

When we stepped off the last rung of the cables, we were met all around by high fives and hugs from other hikers, all of them strangers until this moment. We all recognized what an accomplishment we’d achieved. Although thousands of people climb Half Dome each season, there are millions more visitors to the park who never get closer than the valley floor to this iconic symbol of Yosemite.

Judi standing in a snow patch on Half Dome

Until you’re up there, you don’t realize how large the top really is. It’s thirteen (13) acres in area, and even in late June there were still patches of snow. Shevy, of course, had to explore much of its expanse, while I stayed well away from the edge. That didn’t mean, however, that I missed the superb views from every angle.

On Top - El Capitan inf the Background

Because it was late in the day and we’d completed only half the hike so far, we didn’t stay on top too long–no more than 20 to 30 minutes. And you can imagine what was on my mind, can’t you? Yup. The trip down. I’d promised myself that I would go down the cables facing the rock, so I wouldn’t look out at the giant vistas before us–and freak myself out royally.

Not only did I go down facing outward, all the while gaping at the scenery before me, but I did so with an amazing confidence. The young man just ahead of me had no such luck. He was scared. Really scared. Shevy had to hold me back.

“Give him some room, for Pete’s sake. Can’t you see he’s panicked?”

For his part, Shevy decided to give me a thrill. He ducked under the cable and started to descend, one-handed, on the outside.

“Get back here!” I shrieked. “Don’t be such a fool.”

With every group of hikers there are those who decide to get away from the crowds and go down (or up) on the outside. Some say it’s actually less risky because the granite on the outside hasn’t been worn as smooth from the thousands of hikers who’ve trod the inside path each year. Reluctantly Shevy slipped back to the inside and got behind me. Because it was so late in the day, the number of hikers on the cables had greatly reduced from earlier, so we didn’t have the huge cluster of climbers that have caused the Park Service to start issuing Half Dome hiking permits for weekends and holidays this year.

When we came down the subdome steps, we were two of only four or five people still left. We got down to the bottom where Gail awaited, once again to hugs and high fives.

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.

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?

I confess. I haven’t been blogging because I have been “playing.”

With Photoshop and Photoshop Elements.

I’m not often intimidated by computer software, but Adobe programs are so intensive that they really have a long learning curve. Up to now I’ve learned the bare minimum to do what I need to but not really using anything like the real capabilities of the programs.

Because of my new passion for photography, I’ve been following several photographers whose work I really admire. What a blessing that G. Dan Mitchell just happened to post a brief “tutorial” on making frames for online photos. That’s something I’d asked daughter Farida about, but she didn’t really give me a lot of help, probably because no one has ever shown her the tricks–or because she’s never been interested.

After reading Dan’s blog post, I screwed up my courage and decided to give it a try. It worked! In the process I learned a lot more about layers in Photoshop and Elements, which is an essential part of using the power Photoshop is famous for. Now I’m addicted and can’t wait to learn about other features I’ve been avoiding.

It feels sooooo good to reach even a small Photoshop summit! Thanks, Dan, for the inspiration.